


Up the Duff

by CorvetteClaire



Series: Misbegotten [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adorable Toddlers, Desperate Malfoys, Established Relationship, Fluff, Harry's Thing with Walls, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, Mpreg, Pregnant Draco, Protective Harry, Smut, Snarky Draco Malfoy, Snarky Malfoy-style Humor, Unspeakables (Harry Potter), Wizengamot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 86,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvetteClaire/pseuds/CorvetteClaire
Summary: Draco Potter is hugely pregnant and (much to his surprise) enjoying himself. He loves having Harry fuss over him and looks forward to adding another Potter to their little family. Unfortunately for Draco, his parents have found out about their impending grandchild and have no intention of letting him separate them from this child, as he did from Bob (Felix). Their attempts to force their way into Draco's life may bring down even greater troubles on his head when the wizarding world at large finds out that Draco Potter, née Malfoy is up the duff!OrThe fic that answers the burning questions...How many servings of McDonald's french fries can a pregnant wizard eat in a single day?Just how adorable and persuasive can a quarter-Veela toddler get before his fathers sell him to the Goblins?Is it possible to conceal a pregnant belly the size of a Hogwarts carriage under a glamour?What could be more ruthless and dangerous than Malfoys in need of an heir?Will Harry and Dracoeveragree on a name for their child?Are girls really easier (and will our heroes ever find out)?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: Misbegotten [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743016
Comments: 260
Kudos: 496





	1. Draco's Pregnancy Woes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> Well, here we are at the final major installment of the _Misbegotten_ series. This one will be several chapters and include far more actual plot than the one-shots. It also includes more angst, for which I apologize in advance, but we need some sort of conflict to drive the plot. :) I'll try to keep it to a minimum.
> 
> This first chapter is mostly set up for the rest of the story--a glimpse of our boys and Bob enjoying Domestic Bliss, and a chance to catch up on the events of the last few months. The plot will kick in with the next chapter.
> 
> Just FYI... I do not publish on a schedule because I can't write Draco Snark on demand and won't publish something that isn't ready. So I can't tell you when the next chapter is coming. What I can tell you is that I write every day and I WILL NOT abandon this story unfinished. So if there's a delay, it's because I'm working hard to get a chapter just right. Please bear with me.
> 
> And before we begin, I want to publicly thank everyone who's been reading, enjoying and commenting on my series so far! You are wonderful and generous, and I couldn't ask for a better group of readers! Thank you from the bottom of my heart! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story...

On the whole, Draco Potter enjoyed being up the duff. No one could be more surprised than himself by this fact, and if asked how he was feeling at any given moment, he would invariably heave a long-suffering sigh that told his audience just how heavy a burden he carried. But even as he rolled his eyes heavenward, lifted a delicate hand to his brow, and wilted elegantly under the vicissitudes of life, he was privately thinking, _We’re all right, really, my little Quaffle and I._

There were downsides to the situation, of course. He couldn’t see his feet. He couldn’t use his magic. He couldn’t venture outside his home without a disguise or Harry’s invisibility cloak. He had to cajole Harry into re-tailoring his clothing at least once a week, as his little Quaffle got less and less _little_ with every day that passed (it had, in fact, outgrown the sobriquet long since, resembling more a hot air balloon than a Quaffle, but the name had stuck fast in the minds of his Quidditch-obsessed family). His belly was quite unwieldy, proceeding through doorways well ahead of the rest of him and pushing his center of gravity ever farther outside his body, to the detriment of his balance. Then there was the pain.

Draco had never been good with pain. It made him sour and snappish. Whiny. Demanding. Thoroughly unbearable. Anyone less patient than Harry would probably have throttled him by now, since he spent most of his days snapping and whining and snarking and snarling and demanding that his husband cater to his every petulant whim. Or that’s how it seemed to Draco.

He could only assume that it seemed much worse to Harry, who actually had to put up with his appalling behavior.

The problem, as Draco understood it, was that his magical womb did not behave like a normal biological one (big surprise there) and that his male body didn’t know what to make of it. The womb did not naturally expand as the baby grew. His abdominal muscles did not stretch nor his ligaments soften to accommodate its increasing size. And as both baby and womb grew, they squashed everything in their path until his internal organs were bruised and whimpering and protesting the horror being visited upon them.

Only Harry’s magic made it possible. Only Harry himself made it survivable. And it was because of Harry that, in spite of everything, Draco enjoyed being up the duff.

Harry took care of him. Harry rubbed his aching feet, brought him tea and toast in bed, stood with him in the shower to soap his body clean, painted colorful streaks in his hair to sweeten his sour moods, kissed the pout from his lips, and fucked him up against the wall every chance he got. Harry poured love and magic into him without stinting, taking away the pain and filling him with enough power to make a hundred babies.

Harry was the white-hot center of his universe. The irresistible force that held him to earth when the firestorm of emotion inside him threatened to blow him out into the cosmos. As long as Harry was there to anchor him, Draco would always be safe, always be able to find his way home.

That did not mean that Harry was always the perfect, attentive partner. Merlin, no! For all his superhuman patience, he could get positively shirty with Draco, especially in the mornings, when Draco was at his worst and Harry was not yet fully conscious.

Mornings like this one.

Draco was awake and in pain. He could feel the baby squirming, kicking, struggling to find space in a womb that was, once again, too small for it. Every move sent spikes of pain through Draco’s abdomen, making him pant for breath as he struggled to ride them out (like a woman in labor, he often thought, and wasn’t that ironic?).

Beside him, Harry lay sprawled in loose-limbed splendor, face half buried in a pillow, snoring and drooling and wallowing in the divine sleep of the un-pregnant. The bloody git.

“Potter.”

The other man did not stir.

“ _Potter._ ”

That got a snort and a twitch, then stillness.

Draco groaned and swore and twisted on his side to fumble in the drawer of his nightstand. It was full of potion bottles, but he couldn’t tell which one he needed without levering himself up on an elbow to look, and that was simply not happening. Grabbing his wand from the detritus on his nightstand, he jabbed it at the drawer.

“ _Accio_ potion!”

Nothing happened.

With another groan, another curse, he fell back on his pillow and glared at the back turned so heartlessly on him.

“Potter.” He waited for a beat, then poked at Harry’s ribs with the tip of his useless Hawthorne stick. “Potter, you prick. Wake up!”

“ _Unnngh…_ ”

Thank Merlin! A sign of life!

“You forgot my potion.”

“What?” Harry demanded sleepily.

“My potion. You left it in the kitchen. _Again._ ”

“Didn’t… I didn’t.” Harry burrowed his face into the pillow, and mumbled, “It’s in the drawer.”

“It isn’t! I looked!”

Pain and frustration made him reckless. He flicked his wand at Harry, knowing it was a colossally bad idea to attempt magic in his current state but not giving a fuck, and was surprised to see a halfway decent Stinging hex fly from its tip.

“ _Ouch!_ ”

“Do you _want_ me to sick up all over the bed?!”

“Bloody hell, Draco.” Rolling over, Harry reached blindly for Draco’s nightstand and growled, “ _Accio_ fucking potion.”

A small blue bottle instantly flew from the open drawer to his outstretched hand.

“Didn’t look very hard, did you? Here.” He popped the cork with another surge of wandless magic and thrust the bottle in the general direction of his husband. “Drink it and shut your gob.”

“ _Hmph._ ”

Draco plucked the bottle from his fingers and downed its contents in a single swallow. It tasted terrible, but he had long since given up complaining about it. The stuff was Nectar of the Gods to him, now. The moment it hit his stomach, he collapsed back against the pillows with an ostentatious sigh of relief (only the tiniest sliver of which was for show). Harry curled up on his side facing Draco and reached over to clasp his arm. His eyes were still maddeningly closed.

“So sorry to disturb your beauty sleep with my irrational demands for attention,” Draco sniffed.

“Git.” Harry finally opened his eyes and smiled at his scowling husband. “I don’t mind that you woke me up, but I could’ve done without the hex to the ribs. And you might’ve lit the bed on fire by mistake, then where would we be?”

Draco just grunted sourly at that and flung up an arm to cover his eyes.

“Ready for your spells?”

Did he really have to ask? Had a single morning passed in the last seven months when Draco _hadn’t_ been ready for his spells? He supposed that Harry was trying to be considerate, asking before he touched, but Draco was in no condition to appreciate his delicacy. He just wanted it to stop bloody hurting.

“Do it.”

The bed shifted, as Harry pushed himself up on an elbow. Then Draco felt the blankets peel down, his nightshirt peel up, and the chill air touch his bare stomach. He shivered. The baby heaved, pushing furiously against the confining walls of his womb, and Harry planted a soft kiss on the spot where a tiny foot protruded.

“Please, Harry,” he croaked, a touch of desperation in his voice.

Another kiss to the baby’s foot, then Harry murmured, “All right, love, I’ve got you,” and the exotic words of the incantation washed over him.

Harry didn’t need the words. He was so powerful and so closely attuned to both the magic and the baby it nurtured that he could cast the spells almost instinctively by now. But he knew that Draco found the words comforting, so he always spoke them aloud, like poetry or a prayer for his suffering husband.

The magic wrapped him in a blanket of soothing warmth. It seeped into nerve and muscle, softening his body until it seemed to embrace the baby inside it, rather than fighting against it. The pain faded. The baby quieted. The air moved smoothly in and out of his lungs, as the pressure on his diaphragm eased. His stomach unclenched. And he groaned softly in relief.

Harry sent another wash of magic over him—a last caress—and cuddled down next to him in bed, one hand resting on the impressive mound of his belly. “Better?”

“Marginally,” was Draco’s grudging reply.

Harry chuckled and nipped at his shoulder. “Good thing you don’t have morning sickness.”

“Oh?” Draco let his tone go light and mocking, telling Harry that his mood was improving by the moment. “It’s morning. I’m sick. What am I missing, here?”

“Not the same thing. Real morning sickness can actually happen any time, and you can’t cure it with a spell.”

“Yes, but I’m assuming that it doesn’t happen every morning, without fail, for the entire pregnancy.”

“Well, no,” Harry admitted, “not usually.”

Draco sighed again, more luxuriously, and rolled onto his side. Harry obligingly spooned up behind him, slipping an arm around his waist to clasp his enormous tummy. Draco could feel the other man’s inevitable morning wood nestle between his cheeks. It was leaking.

He must have been dreaming about walls when Draco woke him up.

“You’re making a mess of my pants,” Draco remarked, in a low, teasing tone guaranteed to push his susceptible husband over the edge.

“That’s an easy fix,” Harry murmured, as he hooked his fingers in the back of Draco’s pants and slid them down. “And before you ask, yes, we have plenty of time.”

“I wasn’t going to ask. I was going to tell you to stop arsing about and shag me, already.”

Harry wasn’t the only one who’d been indulging in erotic dreams involving walls, and now that the magic had done its work, Draco was as much in need of relief as his husband. He arched into Harry’s touch, pulling his knees up as far as they would go with a mountain above them. When he felt Harry’s burning cock brush his bare skin, he moaned shamelessly.

Harry laughed down low in his throat and reached around Draco’s hip to find his cock. It lay hot and wet up the curve of his belly, fairly begging for attention. Taking it in a loose fist, he swiped his thumb over the head, smearing the hungry wetness over them both. At the same time, he eased the first inch of his own cock into Draco’s body. Draco stiffened, clamped down, gave a hiss of pain, and Harry obligingly paused to let him adjust.

This was a new sensation for Draco—actually flinching away from that first punishing thrust instead of welcoming it. In the past, he’d enjoyed the pain. Craved it. Even begged for it. Now, with the baby crowding and crushing his abused innards through the night, mornings found him both agonizingly horny and too tender to accept the intrusion of a hard, hungry cock inside him. A very awkward combination, but fortunately for Draco, one Harry was prepared to deal with.

He waited now, body poised, reining in his desire until he felt Draco go pliant in his arms. Then he rolled his hips smoothly forward, pressing in until his bollocks met the lower curve of Draco’s arse. Again he waited, stroking caressing fingers up and down the shaft they circled, while Draco breathed through the cramping in his guts and the burning in his arse. Finally, Draco gave a throaty purr and pushed back against him in a clear signal. Harry began to move.

It was sweet and slow and lovely. Two bodies moving languorously together. Heat building gradually between them, like magma rising, until their pace quickened, their breathing grew harsh, their skin slicked with sweat, and soft sighs of pleasure turned to panting demands for _More!_ and _Harder!_ and _Fuck, I want to split you in two!_ Then Harry fastened his mouth to the column of Draco’s throat, sucking a bruise into it, and Draco came with a wrenching cry, his spunk spilling hot over hand and belly and sheets. Harry was only a stroke or two behind him, and he groaned as he emptied himself into Draco’s shuddering body.

When they had both gone boneless with release, and their pulses had slowed to normal, Harry eased out of Draco’s arse. A quick spell stripped them both clean, then he nestled his half-hard cock against Draco’s thighs and gently kissed the purple-red mark he’d left on his throat. Draco sighed and snuggled back into his arms.

“Hungry?” Harry murmured in his ear.

“Ravenous.”

“Shall I get up and get cooking, then?”

“Mmm.” Draco wrapped his arms over Harry’s and squirmed still more closely into his embrace.

“Felix will be waking up soon.”

“Mmm.” Twisting his head so he could fix Harry with half-lidded eyes, Draco demanded, “Why so anxious to bugger off, Potter?”

Harry chuckled softly. “The only thing I’m anxious to bugger is you.”

“Be my guest.”

“I need another few minutes to recover. And a cup of tea.”

“Well. If a cup of tea holds more attraction to you than your husband, there’s nothing more to be said.”

“Twat,” Harry said fondly, before planting a kiss on his nose that earned him a grimace and an elbow to the ribs. “That’s my cue to leave.”

As Harry rolled off the bed and to his feet, Draco twisted onto his back to watch him. He was naked (Harry rarely bothered with pajamas, not needing the extra warmth in bed and disliking any unnecessary barrier between him and his husband), and the cold November air raised goosebumps on his arms. Draco wanted to stroke them away, to draw him back into the warmth of their bed and the warmth of his body, but he controlled the urge. He was still drained from his recent orgasm and content simply to enjoy the view.

Harry paused to stretch and scrub fingers through his hair, then he lit the fire with a flick of his hand and padded toward the bathroom. As he passed the window, he stopped and twitched aside the curtain to peer out at Grimmauld Place. Draco watched him with half-lidded eyes.

“Still there?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Circe’s sagging tits. What is my mother thinking?”

He’d been asking himself this question for weeks, ever since the small, grey figure had first appeared on the patch of grass at the center of the square. To any Muggle, it would look like a particularly ugly piece of garden statuary, but to the two wizards staring at it from their warded windows, it was quite obviously a house-elf.

The sentry in the square was just the latest sortie in his parents’ long, relentless campaign to gain access to their new grandchild. It had begun, on the very day they learned of Draco’s pregnancy, with a deluge of letters that their recalcitrant son had burned without reading. Only after wasting a library’s worth of parchment and quite likely killing a few owls from exhaustion did they finally accept that the letters weren’t going to work. Then they switched tactics, sending Narcissa’s Patronus to harass him instead.

For weeks, the ill-tempered swan trailed at his heels, hissing angrily and demanding that Draco contact his mother _at once!_ (Luckily, his father couldn’t cast a Patronus, so he didn’t have to contend with whatever foul creature the soul of Lucius Malfoy might vomit up for his torment.) Harry put a stop to that with a visit to Robards, who in turn paid a visit to the Malfoys. They were violating the Writ that forbade them contact with their grandson, he sternly informed them, and would face Azkaban if they did not cease and desist. Predictably, they ceased and desisted. Even more predictably, they did not give up. They sent the house-elves.

The elves knocked on the front door. Conjured gifts and messages for Draco that they left on the stoop. Tried (unsuccessfully, thanks to Harry) to apparate through the wards. And finally, took up residence in the square, where they remained day in and day out, rain and shine, come hell or high water, to no fucking purpose that Harry and Draco could discern.

“Maybe she assumes we won’t notice,” Harry mused, “or that we’ll just forget the elf is there and walk right out of the house into its arms.” He cast a wry glance over his shoulder at the man still snuggled down in the warm bed. “She never did have a very high opinion of my intelligence.”

Draco smirked up at him, his face full of equal parts love, laughter and derision. “What she doesn’t know is that you’re far more likely to take pity on the wretched creature and invite it in for a hot meal.”

“Well…” Harry turned back to the window and the woebegone elf. “It does look cold out there…”

“No. No elves. I absolutely forbid it. Besides, that one is an enemy agent and would probably try to kidnap me the moment you let it through the wards!”

“How about if I just take it a cup of tea?”

“Oh, for Fuck’s sake!” Draco groaned, dragging a pillow over his head and crushing it down to block out the sight of Harry’s grin.

“Come on, love,” Harry chuckled, plucking the pillow away and planting a kiss on his scowling lips. “Time to face the day. We have an appointment at St. Mungo’s this morning, and Felix will be awake any minute.”

Right on cue, they both heard a high, piercing cry from across the hall. “Papa! Papaaa! I can’t find Mr. Platters!”

Draco cursed again and tried to wrest the pillow away from Harry to smother himself with it, but Harry held it up, laughing.

“Go find Mr. Platters for him, while I get dressed. Then I’ll take over Urchin Duty, and you can have a shower.”

Draco groaned dramatically, making a show of heaving his bulk upright, then swinging his feet to the floor. He actually felt quite sprightly, after plenty of magic and sex to set him right, but he liked having Harry fuss over him. True to form, Harry ignored his own bodily needs to rush to Draco’s aid. He hurried over to the bed, pulled Draco to his feet, and looped an arm around his waist to steady him. Draco welcomed his support and leaned into him, so Harry could feel the baby doing its morning calisthenics.

“Does it still hurt?” Harry asked softly, his hands lingering on Draco’s waist. “Do you want me to look after Felix?”

“Of course I don’t,” Draco groused. “But I would like to know how it is that the infernal brat can produce enough magic to counter your strongest spells but can’t Summon his own plushie from under the bed!”

“Give him a wand, and I’m sure he will.”

“A wand? Are you _insane?_ ”

Harry just laughed, kissed him, and headed for the loo, leaving Draco to deal with the elusive platypus plushie.

* * *

Breakfast at Grimmauld Place followed a predictable pattern. Harry cooked. Draco drooped over his first cup of coffee. Bob painted his face and the floor with the day’s food of choice, while babbling non-stop to his unimpressed father. Today, thanks to an invitation from Cousin Teddy to come see his new broomstick, his level of excitement was almost painful, and Draco couldn’t help muttering a curse on older cousins and their ill-timed gestures.

“Teddy said it’s a _real_ broom!” Bob enthused around a nauseating mouthful of half-chewed pancake, “a _grown-up_ broom! He said it c’n go high as the trees!”

Draco took a gulp of glorious, hot, tar-black coffee, then pressed his fingertips to his eyelids in a vain attempt to hold back a headache. “Merlin help me.”

“He said it c’n go really fast! Like your broom and Daddy’s and Uncle Ron’s and Aunty Gin…”

“ _Bob_ ,” Draco said warningly, halting him in mid-list.

“Did Teddy tell you what kind of broom it is?” Harry asked, as he set a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of Draco.

“A _fast_ broom.” Bob’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates at the tantalizing thought of all the marvelous grown-up-broom possibilities. “I bet a Firebolt. That's the fastest broom ever!”

Harry chuckled and dropped down onto the bench at Draco’s side, a full plate and a cup of tea in his hands. “I highly doubt Teddy’s grandmum would let him have a Firebolt. That’s a very powerful broom for such an inexperienced flyer.”

“Says the man whose first broomstick was a Nimbus 2000,” Draco muttered into his coffee.

“I want a Firebolt,” Bob said reverently. “Like Daddy’s.”

“Maybe you can have Daddy’s—now that he’s too old and decrepit to hoist himself onto it.”

“Says the man who can barely hoist himself out of bed in the morning,” Harry shot back, grinning.

“I want a Firebolt, or a Nimbus, or a PhoenixFire, or a Comet Millen- len’mum…”

Of course Harry’s child would be able to list off every top-of-the-line racing broom before he could even pronounce half the words. It was fucking inevitable.

Draco knew an undignified urge to bang his head on the table. Instead, he addressed his son in his most severe tone. “If you don’t be quiet and eat your breakfast, you won’t get a broomstick of your own ’til you’re forty. Now _eat._ ”

Bob promptly shoved a sticky forkful into his mouth, then said, through a spray of syrup, “I’m done. C’n we go now?”

Draco sighed wearily. “Don’t talk with your mouthful. And no, we cannot go see Teddy’s broom now. He invited us for tomorrow afternoon, remember?”

“I want to go now.”

“That’s too bad, because we’re going tomorrow. Today, Daddy and I are going out, and you are going to spend the morning at the Burrow with Molly.”

A dangerous scowl descended on Bob’s angelic face, warning of violent storms to come, but then abruptly vanished as a new thought occurred to him. “Gamma Molly has brooms.”

“None of which you are going to fly,” Draco retorted, leveling his fork at his son in a clear warning.

“Felix.” The boy turned his limpid eyes and the full force of his Veela magic on Harry, only to be met by a far more forceful gaze than his three-year-old self could possibly muster—even in full-on Veela Mode. Harry gave him his best stern, fatherly look, completely unmoved by the Allure hanging like heavy perfume in the air, and stated, “You are not to talk Gamma Molly into letting you on a broom, do you hear me? In fact, you are not to _touch_ a broomstick without me or Papa there to keep an eye on you.”

Bob regarded him solemnly, one finger in his mouth. “Not ever?”

“Not ever.”

“Not when I’m forty?”

Harry almost cracked a smile at that but managed to control it, knowing that their ruthless son would pounce at any hint of relenting. “We’ll discuss it then.”

“C’n I fly with Teddy?”

“That will depend on how you behave for Molly today. And no more of your Veela mischief, young man! It’s not going to work, so stop it this instant!”

It took the better part of an hour to get Bob fed, washed, groomed, and harangued into a proper state of obedience. By the time they marched him into the drawing room, bundled up in a warm Weasley jumper and clutching Mr. Platters, Draco was thoroughly exhausted and almost eager to see his son step into the floo with Harry. He felt a brief twinge of guilt for this lapse in parental devotion when Bob wrapped his arms around his legs and said, “G’bye Papa, g’bye Baby,” in his sweetest voice. But the next words out of his mouth hardened his father’s heart afresh.

“I’m gonna tell Gamma Molly all ’bout Teddy’s broom!”

“Lucky Molly,” Draco muttered, as Harry and Bob disappeared in a flash of green flame.

Harry was back in five minutes to be met by Draco demanding, “Tell me you warned Molly to lock up the brooms!”

“I did. She’s fully prepared for the onslaught.” Pulling Draco into his arms for a restorative kiss, he mused, “Maybe we should just give in and buy the little chap his own broomstick.”

“What?” Draco leaned back in Harry’s arms to eye him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

Harry shrugged. “He loves to fly, and all his cousins had brooms by the time they were three. Why shouldn’t he?”

“Why shouldn’t…? Harry, that _little chap_ , as you call him, can destroy your strongest spells on a whim! What do you think he’d do to one of those brooms his cousins were so proud of?” Before Harry could answer, he went on wrathfully, “I’ll tell you what! He’d strip off every last safety charm, and then he’d be off to Antarctica to visit the penguins, or down to Australia to play with the real platypi!”

“Platypuses.”

“What _ever!_ That is not the point!”

“Okay, okay, calm down.”

“This is Bob we’re talking about! Given half the chance, he’d take the thing into fucking _orbit!_ ”

“I get it. No broom. But you do realize that we can’t actually ground him ’til he’s forty, right?”

“We can ground him ’til he’s old enough to exercise a bit of restraint.”

“Huh.” Harry cocked his head and raised his brows at his seething husband. “Felix… Restraint… Nope. Sorry. Not seeing it.”

When Draco gave him an irritated poke in the ribs, he broke away, laughing. “All right, time to put your anonymous face on, love. We’ll be late for our appointment, if we don’t hurry.”

*** *** ***

It was lunch time, and the Atrium was packed with hurrying figures in a veritable rainbow of Ministry robes, when a strange wizard appeared in one of the incoming floos. He was entirely unremarkable, of medium height, with medium-brown hair, medium-width shoulders, medium-sized glasses in front of medium-blue eyes. Even his robes were a medium color so uninteresting that it defied description. No one spared him a second glance, as he stepped out of the fireplace, brushed the soot from his robes, and turned to assist a second figure that spun into sight behind him.

This one was a witch, fine-boned, slight of build (if a bit taller than one might expect), hugely pregnant, and carrying several paper bags with golden Ms blazoned across them. Her coloring was a shade lighter than her companion’s, her lines and curves a touch softer, but otherwise, she seemed to possess the same aggressive blandness (except for that prodigious belly and the enticing odor of fried food that clung to her) that characterized him.

The wizard caught the witch’s elbow to guide her out of the fireplace. Then he leaned close and murmured, in Harry Potter’s voice, “All right? Not going to sick up?”

The witch answered in Draco’s distinctive (and quite jarring, considering his appearance) tones, “No, but I am going to faint from hunger in another thirty seconds.”

“I’ll wave some chips under your nose to revive you.” With that cheerful assurance, Harry tucked Draco’s free hand through his elbow and steered him into the crowd. “Watch your step, love.”

“How?” was Draco’s sour reply.

They reached the gates at the far end of the room, with Draco only twice tripping over some object lost beneath the horizon of his stomach. The badge on Harry’s Ministry robes got them past the guard and to the lifts. Outside Granger’s fourth-floor office, Harry cast a small _Confundus_ charm on her assistant so they could breeze past him without stopping to explain this lapse in manners and protocol by two total strangers bearing vast amounts of junk food.

The office door flew open. Granger looked up from the parchment in front of her, brows drawing together, mouth opening to deliver a sharp reprimand for the interruption. Then she took in the couple bearing down on her and her face cleared. She broke out in an appreciative smile.

“Hullo, you two. I was wondering where you’d got to.”

Draco brandished a bag that smelled divinely of french fries. “We brought lunch.”

“I see.” Her pursed lips told him exactly what she thought of his menu choice, but he ignored it. He was the pregnant one, after all, and therefore entitled to indulge himself. “And how did you get past Galen? Did you Confund him again?”

“Ask Harry.”

Draco crossed to the desk and lowered himself into a waiting chair. Behind him, Harry had shut the door and removed their disguises, so it was his own silver-blond plait that fell over his shoulder as he did so, and his own sapphire and diamond wedding ring that glittered on the hand gripping the chair arm for balance. He settled back with a grateful sigh.

“No more than I had to,” Harry assured her.

“Honestly, Harry, you’re going to give that poor man brain damage,” Granger scolded, “and for what?”

“You know what for,” Harry countered, as he dropped into the chair at Draco’s side. “We dodged a Killing Curse with that lunch at the Burrow. I still don’t know why Percy never said anything…”

“I do.” A devious smile played about Granger’s lips that she tried to hide by pursing them again. “Still, it seems foolish to go to such lengths to keep a secret that has to come out eventually. In a couple of months, you’ll have a new baby to explain. Are you going to pretend you found it in a rubbish bin?”

“Why didn’t the Ponce out us?” Draco demanded, jumping on what was by far her most interesting statement (he’d heard all of Granger’s arguments against hiding his pregnancy so often, by now, that he could recite them in his sleep). “And don’t tell me he had a fit of conscience because I won’t believe _that_ for one bleeding minute!”

Granger’s smile widened into a smug grin. “You can thank your sisters-in-law for that. Ginny threatened him with her nastiest Bat-Bogey hex if he said a word to anyone outside the family, then Audrey swore she’d lock in him a room with an armed Draco Malfoy and no referee.” Her eyes glittered with pent-up laughter. “He still has nightmares about that one.”

Draco cocked his head. “Audrey? Seriously?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded slowly.

“I didn’t know she had it in her. Ginny, obviously. She’s terrifying at the best of times. But timid little Audrey, who wouldn’t say ‘Boo’ to a goose?”

“Apparently, she’s more frightened of you than she is of her husband.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Harry said cheerfully. “Can we stop talking about Percy now, and just agree that the wizarding world does not need to know about the newest Potter?”

Granger got that disapproving look again and said, in her bossiest tone, “It’s going to come out, Harry, when the baby is born if not sooner. And you of all people should know how important it is to control the narrative.”

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, “not the fucking narrative again!” Draco couldn’t help but agree with him on that. They’d been arguing about ‘the narrative’ for seven solid months. “Give me some chips.”

Draco tossed him one of the (smaller) bags with a chilly, “They’re french fries, you dolt,” and dug into his own much larger one. The first bite of deep-fried deliciousness made him moan obscenely. Harry grinned at him and nudged him with a foot. Granger pretended not to notice that he was practically having an orgasm over his lunch.

“Tell me about your healer visit,” she chirped.

“Just the usual,” Harry said around a mouthful of fries. “The baby’s doing fine, but Draco needs to eat more and sleep more and stop trying to use his magic. He accidentally turned Bulstrode’s quill into a wombat today.”

“How do you know it was an accident?” Draco asked, brows raised in a challenge. “Maybe I was trying for a wombat…”

“You were trying to turn it green. And you wouldn’t have been swearing for two minutes afterward, if you’d meant to do it.”

“Well, at least it was a cute wombat,” Draco grumbled. He grabbed another handful of fries and shoved them in his mouth to underscore the fact that he had most definitely delivered the last word on the subject.

“Anyway,” Harry went on, now munching sloppily on a burger, “Bulstrode was pleased with Draco’s progress—or as pleased as he ever seems to be. Honestly, Hermione, I know he’s a great healer and all, but couldn’t you have found someone a bit more cheerful?”

“Healer Bulstrode was the obvious choice to oversee this pregnancy,” Granger said primly.

“Because he was the only one who would agree to do it,” Draco chimed in.

“That’s neither here nor there. He’s eminently qualified. And he has embraced the challenge in a way that even I did not expect.”

“Maybe, but it’s unnerving the way he makes everything sound like a tragedy waiting to happen. I never know how seriously to take him.”

“Eeyore!” Harry suddenly blurted out.

Granger gave a spurt of laughter.

“What?”

“He’s Eeyore. Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“What’s an Eeyore?” Draco demanded.

“It’s a Muggle thing,” Granger informed him crisply. Then, to Harry, “He always reminds me of Mundungus Fletcher—without the thieving nature and the smell of alcohol.”

Harry nodded agreement. “It’s the droopy eyes.”

“He’s Millicent Bulstrode’s uncle,” Draco put in, annoyed at being out of his depth with these Eeyores and Mundunguses that he’d never heard of.

“I wondered,” Harry said, “but I was afraid to ask. Only, what would I say if turned out to be true? ‘Lovely girl, Millicent. Built like a troll and twice as mean, but lovely. Really.’”

They were all still chuckling at this when Ron strode into the office, looking handsome and authoritative in Auror red. Granger’s face lit up at the sight of him, then abruptly, comically fell.

“What are you doing here, Ron? Did I forget a lunch date?”

“Nope.” He shut the door with a snap, cutting off their conversation from the oft-Confunded Galen, then said, “I was hoping Harry would still be here. And that there’d be food.”

“If you can call it that,” Granger sniffed, but her decidedly less persnickety husband was already across the room, at the desk, burrowing into a paper sack.

“Mmm… McDonald’s fries…”

“I told you,” Draco shot at Harry. “Even Weasel knows what they are, and he was raised in a chicken coop.”

“Hey!” Ron objected. Then his eyes fell on Draco and widened dramatically. “Blimey, Ferret, you look like a blancmange with legs!”

“And you look like a man who wants to be hexed.”

Ron gave him a saucy smile. “Too bad you can’t do magic, then, innit?”

“I can still throw things,” Draco informed him, cocking his hand back to hurl a paper-wrapped burger at his friend.

“Yeah, good, toss it here.”

“Fucking wanker,” Draco muttered, as he obligingly lobbed the burger into Ron’s outstretched hands.

“Love you, too, Malfoy.” He took an enormous bite and said, the words muffled by bread and meat, “How’d it go at St. Mungo’s.”

“Fine,” Harry assured him. “The baby’s doing fine.”

“Did they do that charm to confirm the sex?”

“No!” Harry and Draco chorused in unison, then Draco added, “We don’t want to know.”

Weasel looked baffled by this, though Draco wasn’t fooled for a moment (he had long since learned that Ron’s ‘baffled’ face was as false as his own composed Malfoy mask; the man was rarely baffled by anything).

“Why not? ’Mione and I found out what both of ours were by six months, and it made everything much simpler.”

“We don’t want to know,” Draco repeated doggedly.

“Just think… You could start rowing about names now, then maybe you’d actually agree on one by the time the poor blighter gets here.”

“What part of ‘we don’t want to know’ are you not getting, Weasel?”

“There’s actually very little chance it’s a girl,” Granger ventured, “if I understand the magical theory behind wizard pregnancies correctly.”

“Too bad,” Ron said lugubriously. “Girls are easier.”

“So you’ve said many times,” Harry sighed in exasperation, “and it never gets any more helpful. It’s not like we get to choose which kind we want.”

“Still…” Ron began, only to be cut off by Harry.

“Thank you for your unsolicited opinion, but frankly, it’s none of your bloody business. Now,” he bounced to his feet, clapped his hands together, and threw Weasel an expectant look, “Did you need me for something?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Warburton brought in some evidence from a raid last night that you’ve seriously got to see.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

Harry grabbed Ron’s arm and frog-marched him toward the door, while Ron waved the remains of his burger in Harry’s face and whinged, “Oi! I’m eating!”

“Eat in the lift.”

“Don’t be gone too long,” Draco called after their retreating backs.

“And don’t Confund my assistant!” Granger added.

Then the door closed on them, leaving Draco and Granger alone in the suddenly-peaceful office. They exchanged a look. Draco smirked.

“Merlin, Granger, how do you put up with that?”

“It’s not always easy, I grant you,” she conceded, eyes warm and sparkling with an emotion Draco knew was not aimed at him, “but for all his lack of social graces, my dear husband is nobody’s fool. According to Ron, it doesn’t make sense to delay confirming the baby’s sex,” she paused, then added, pointedly, “unless you’re afraid.”

“ _Afraid?_ Of what, pray tell?”

“Being forced to admit that I’m right.” Her eyes now shone with a fondness that was all for him, and he couldn’t help grinning in response. “I know you, Draco Potter, and you’d rather be tortured with a Cruciatus Curse than admit that I’m right.”

Draco chuckled and leaned back in his chair, one hand going to his belly, as the baby kicked sharply. “I must lead a truly miserable life, then, condemned to pay homage to your utter brilliance and infallibility!”

She shrugged, letting the taunt roll harmlessly off her shoulders. “Ever since I told you that wizard pregnancies always produce boys, you’ve flatly refused to discuss the baby’s sex or consider performing the charm that could confirm it—as if refusing to find out will actually change anything! And you’ve got Harry just as worked up about it as you are.”

“Harry doesn’t care about the baby’s sex. He just wants Weasel off our backs so we can enjoy the suspense.”

“The only suspense is in your twisted mind.”

“Perhaps, but it’s my mind and I’m comfortable there, so I’ll thank you to stop trying to untwist it.”

She gave him that fond look again and mused, much more warmly, “Pregnancy becomes you, Draco.”

“Hmph.”

“I’m serious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so contented and happy, even when you fell in love with Felix. You’re, dare I say it…”

“Don’t!”

“… _glowing!_ ”

“ _Eurgh!_ One more word, and I’ll transfigure your tongue into a herring!”

She giggled (yes, Hermione Granger knew how to giggle, preposterous as that seemed) and fixed him with twinkling eyes. “You like being pregnant. All that whinging and fussing and threatening Harry with eternal torment for ruining your figure, and you actually _like_ it!”

“Stop right now or prepare to taste pickled fish for the rest of your natural life!”

“Fine.” She settled back in her chair, eyes still dancing with amusement. “Not that you’d dare use magic on me in your current condition.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? Half the fun is finding out what happens.”

A sudden kick to his abdominal wall wiped the grin from Draco’s face and startled an _Oof!_ of pain from him.

“What’s wrong?” Granger asked.

He grunted again and pressed his hand tightly to his belly, where a limb shoved remorselessly against his abused muscle wall. He could tell by the it’s movements that the baby wasn’t just stretching it’s limbs. It was running out of space.

“Draco?”

“It’s all right. She’s calming down.”

Granger made a face at his deliberate use of the pronoun but didn’t challenge him. “Do you want me to send my Patronus for Harry?”

He shook his head and slumped back in his chair, breathing hard.

Granger gave a flick of her wand to turn Harry’s empty chair to face him. “Put your feet up and relax.”

“Thank you.” He heaved his feet up onto the other chair, then groaned in relief when she conjured cushions behind his lower back and neck. “If I were inclined to effusive compliments, I would call you an angel.”

“Good thing you’re not.”

“Hmm.” He closed his eyes and tried to think calming thoughts to soothe the baby, rhythmically stroking his belly with one hand.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to send for Harry?”

“No, let him finish what he’s doing. He’ll be here soon. He never forgets my potions schedule.”

“If you say so.” She fell quiet for a moment, watching him with palpable worry, then asked, “Where’s Felix today?”

“The Burrow.” He spoke without opening his eyes. “I’m sure he, Rose and Hugo are plotting the overthrow of the free world about now.”

“No doubt.” A pause, then, more softly, “I’m glad that you and Harry worked things out with Molly. She was miserable after that dreadful lunch, when she thought you’d never speak to her again.”

“Please _._ As if Harry would ever cut ties with his family over one fucked-up picnic.”

“For you? Of course he would. Don’t minimize it, Draco. They behaved dreadfully, and Harry was furious _._ If Molly hadn’t apologized…”

“Well, she did—they all did, except Percy—and that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned.”

“I didn’t think you’d be so quick to forgive.”

He could almost feel her eyes narrowing at him. Turning his head to look directly at her, he saw that she was frowning, gnawing the inside of her cheek, and tugging anxiously on a loose strand of hair. A wave of mingled affection and exasperation washed through him.

“Let it go, Granger. Everything’s fine, and it has been for months, so you can stop fretting.”

“I’m just wondering what’s really going on, underneath all this… uncharacteristic civility.”

“I beg your pardon, but I’m always civil! I’m the very _pattern_ of civility! Raised in the great pureblood tradition of _crushing_ civility!”

“All right! Enough!” she protested, laughing. “Pretentious beast. Is Andromeda included in all this crushing civility?”

“Of course. She’s family.”

“Family who betrayed you to your parents.”

Draco’s smile warped into a grimace. “She doesn’t see it that way. She genuinely believes she did the right thing, and in all fairness, she didn’t do any real harm.”

In fact, Andromeda’s decision to tell his parents about the new baby had caused Draco’s little family a great deal of harm. It was thanks to her that they lived as veritable prisoners behind their wards, waiting for his parents’ next assault. But for all that Draco wanted to throttle his aunt every time he looked out the window and saw the house-elf huddled miserably on the grass, he knew that he couldn’t.

She was family. Teddy’s grandmother. Punishing Andromeda meant punishing Teddy, and no one involved wanted that. So Andromeda had graciously apologized (without meaning a word of it, Draco was sure), Harry and Draco had graciously accepted her apology (just as mendaciously, at least on Draco’s part), and everyone had been on their best behavior ever since.

If Granger read Draco’s true feelings in his face (unlikely, given his Malfoy training), she didn’t betray it, just smiled and said, “I’m glad you made your peace with her.”

Draco quirked a noncommittal smile at that, closed his eyes, and settled back against his conjured cushions. Granger obligingly fell quiet, and after a moment, he heard the gentle scratching of a quill on parchment. It was almost hypnotic. He let his mind drift, carried on the sound, and his breathing slow.

He was nearly asleep when the door opened to admit Harry. He cracked open his eyes to see his husband check on the threshold, warm green eyes fixed on him. Then Harry stepped fully into the room and shut the door with a snap.

“You look comfortable.”

“I am.” Draco vouchsafed him a sideways smile that widened into the real thing when Harry stooped to kiss him. Their lips clung deliciously together until Draco was positively purring, then Harry pulled slightly away.

“Ready to go home?”

“Quite. I need my potions.”

“Is that all you need?”

Once again, Draco’s smile shifted, this time turning to a suggestive leer. “Get me home and find out.”

“All right, you two, that’s quite enough,” Granger sniffed. “I have work to do, so please see yourselves out. And don’t Confund my assistant on the way!” was her inevitable send-off.

*** *** ***

“Amortentia!”

Draco looked up from his tea cup to see Harry’s gazing raptly at him. “What?”

He was snuggled into one end of the most comfortable sofa the house had to offer, his feet in Harry’s lap, his shoulders propped on a brocade cushion, enjoying the peace and a last cup of tea after bundling Bob off to bed. The flames crackling on the hearth bathed the room in warmth, while Harry’s hands rubbing his tired feet filled his body with a delicious languor. It was entirely lovely.

Until Harry decided to open his mouth.

“Amortentia! It’s the perfect name!”

“For a love potion, sure.”

“No, for our baby!”

A cold horror gripped Draco, bringing him abruptly upright on the sofa, his contentment fled. “Harry…”

“Think about it! It has to be a potion to keep with tradition, and what better than a love potion? Magic and love, get it?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Draco hissed, but Harry was caught up in his inspiration and paying him no mind.

“If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Amortentius. Or would it be Amortentio? No, Amortentius, I think. Then we can add a really dignified Latin name like… Augustus! Amortentius Augustus Potter, and you can call him Gus.” He shot Draco a winning smile that made his outraged husband grind his teeth. “Since I know how much you like inappropriate Muggle names.”

“Harry Potter, if you name my child Amortentius, I’ll divorce you.”

The smile did not waver. “No, you won’t.”

Draco pondered this for a moment, then conceded, “No, I won’t. But I will murder you and dump your body in the Thames.”

“But then you’ll still be stuck with a child named Amortentius and no one to row with about it! Where’s the fun in that?”

“You think _this_ is fun?”

“Most fun I’ve had all day,” Harry murmured, as he rocked forward to bring his lips to Draco’s.

That did it. How could he stay angry when Harry was kissing him like that? All clinging mouths and thrusting tongues and the tug of teeth on his lower lip. It was so bloody unfair. And so like Harry to end an argument with a mind-melting kiss.

“What about this morning in bed?” Draco murmured, his lips sliding messily on Harry’s and heating with the promise in them. “And against the wall in the library? And on the counter in the…”

“Shut it and kiss me.”

He never could say no to Harry Fucking Potter. Never wanted to say no. So, of course, he had to obey…

“Humm,” Draco murmured, opening his mouth to Harry’s questing tongue and falling back against the sofa arm when the other man leaned into him.

He couldn’t help but admire Harry’s flexibility in getting to his mouth over the enormous mound of his belly, while kneeling on the sofa between his spread legs, and pulling his trousers down over his arse at the same time. This was not a feat just anyone could accomplish. But then, his husband had always been quite resourceful and didn’t lack for practice.

Having bared Draco’s arse, Harry sat back on his heels and grasped his hips to slide him up onto his folded knees. A moment later, Draco felt that enormous cock breach him, and he moaned wantonly in response. The morning’s soreness and caution were forgotten. He didn’t care how much it hurt now. All he wanted was to feel Harry pound into him, claim him, fill him to bursting and never stop. He gave another ragged, panting moan, as Harry bottomed-out in his arse. Then Harry’s hand was behind his neck, pulling him up to meet his lips again, and every muscle in Draco’s body cried out in protest at the strain.

“Ah, fuck!” he gasped, only to have the words swallowed by Harry’s kiss.

Then Harry rose up onto his knees, bringing Draco with him, and began to thrust. It was too much to bear for long—curling over that huge stomach, impaled on that cock, legs straining outward to make room for those pumping hips—and as the desperate heat built in him, he broke the kiss to fall back on his hands. With the change of angle, Harry’s next thrust landed squarely on his sweet-spot. He cried out, his whole body shuddering, and let his head fall limply back. Then a hand wrapped around his cock.

That was his undoing. With a keen of mingled pain and pleasure, he came in a hot rush over Harry’s fist. The power of his climax turned his muscles to water, and his arms collapsed, spilling him back onto the sofa’s arm, while Harry laughed and pounded into him all the harder. Then, with a breathless cry, Harry pitched over the edge as well and slumped down to lie half on top of Draco, hips jerking, come filling Draco’s body with a lovely slippery heat and spilling out of him to stain the cushions beneath them.

Some panting, sweaty, sticky minutes later, Draco felt a proprietary hand on his belly, stroking over it. The baby inside pushed impatiently at the wall of his womb, all but begging for its father’s touch, and Draco smiled to himself. He knew just how the little fellow felt.

“So…” Harry’s warm, raspy voice came from right by his ear, “can I name our baby Amortentius?”

“No, but you can take me to bed and fuck me into the mattress.”

Harry pushed up an elbow to grin down at him. “That’ll do for a start.”

The next thing Draco knew, Harry’s wordless, wandless spell had rendered him nearly weightless, and he was cradled in his husband’s arms like a (very pregnant) bride, on his way to being ravished in their marital bed.

Life was good.

**_To be continued…_ **


	2. Bob to the Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This chapter kind of got away from me. On the one hand, it practically fell out of my fingers, telling me that it needed to be written. On the other hand, it's far more angsty than I had planned. I think it's necessary to the plot, but I'm not sure how well it fits with the rest of the story. I hope you all like it and don't get mad at me for making things too serious. I promise that the humor is coming back! (Please don't yell at me...)
> 
> I apologize for not responding to all your lovely comments on the last chapter yet! I will do that very soon. I was so wrapped up in this chapter that I didn't get anything else done.
> 
> Enjoy!

The next day found Draco not-so-quietly losing his mind. Harry was off at work, saving the wizarding world from one nefarious plot or another. Bob, in anticipation of his visit with Teddy, was fast approaching a fever-pitch of excitement that threatened to blow the roof off the house (by magic or by the sheer volume of noise he produced). And Draco (who had never been famous for his patience) was, for the first time since getting up the duff, grateful that he couldn’t use magic so he wasn’t tempted to hex his own child. He was, however, seriously tempted to sell the insufferable brat to the Goblins for a tidy profit before Bob could regale him with an exhaustive list of family members whose state-of-the-art racing brooms could never hope to compete with whatever model Teddy had acquired—for the tenth fucking time.

Only the imagined look of hurt on Harry’s face kept him from doing it. That, and the fact that he didn’t actually know any Goblins, and so would have to go through Bill Weasley to find a prospective buyer. Bill, like Harry, was unlikely to support his efforts.

At last, lunch was over (if not actually eaten by those who were too busy talking) and the longed-for moment had arrived. Bob bounced into the drawing room with Mr. Platters clutched in his arms and buttery crumbs stuck to his cheeks (Draco simply couldn’t be arsed to wrestle him down and wash his face). Draco followed more carefully but no less eagerly.

Favoring his father with a beatific smile that utterly belied his behavior for the last several hours, Bob chirped, “Time to go, Papa!”

“Thank all the gods.”

Draco took a handful of floo powder from the bowl on the mantel and stepped into the fireplace. Bob came with him, clinging fiercely to his legs.

Throwing down the powder, Draco called, “Andromeda’s cottage!”

Green flame swirled about them as they spun away.

Andromeda was waiting in her sitting room. She ushered them out of the floo, returned Bob’s shrill greeting, and offered Draco a seat when she noticed the green cast to his skin. He accepted gratefully.

The floo had never been Draco’s favorite mode of travel, and at seven months pregnant, it was next door to torture. But even if his healer had allowed him to apparate this late in his pregnancy, Bob was too young for it, and he wouldn’t have dared try with his magic so badly compromised. That left only the floo and the Knight Bus, and no sane human being would ever voluntarily set foot on the Knight Bus.

“Where’s Teddy?” Bob asked, fairly vibrating with anticipation.

“In his room,” Andromeda replied. “Why don’t you run up and say hello?”

“I want to fly!”

“In a little while. After your father’s stomach has a chance to settle.” The smile she gave Draco was all grace and friendliness, and if it reminded him uncomfortably of his mother (or worse, of Bellatrix), that was hardly her fault. “I expect he could use a cup of tea after that trip.”

Bob pouted and opened his mouth to protest, but Draco forestalled the impending battle by taking his hand and saying, firmly, “Mind your manners, Urchin.”

“Yes, Papa.” It was startling how quickly his son could switch from raging whirlwind to sweet-faced angel, when the mood struck him.

“Go find Teddy. I’m sure he’ll be happy to show you his broomstick. And you’d better leave Mr. Platters with me,” he added, as Bob made to leave. “He’s not interested in brooms.” (Translation: “You’ll lose him in all the excitement, and I’ll have to go crawling under the furniture to find him.”)

Turning back to his father, Bob very carefully laid the plushie in his hands and said, “Be nice to him. Choc’late is his fav’rite.”

“Understood.”

Then Bob was gone, streaking out of the room and up the stairs, calling, “Teddy! Teddy! I’m heeeeere!”

Andromeda shot Draco a wry look. “Has he been like that all day?”

“Oh, no. These are his Company manners.”

“Then you definitely need that cup of tea. Just you make yourself comfortable, while I fetch it.”

Draco smiled polite thanks, as she wafted from the room on a cloud of pureblood poise and elegance that even decades of distance from her family could not erode. Resting the plushie on the high mound of his tummy, he folded his hands over it, let his head tilt back, and closed his eyes in relief. The baby gave a friendly kick, just to remind his father (or his mother, or his flower pot, or whatever the buggering fuck Draco was) that he was still there, and Draco smiled softly.

They were all right—he and his little Quaffle.

The click of heels on the wooden floor announced his hostess’ return, forcing Draco’s thoughts away from the alien creature squirming so happily inside him and back to the demands of courtesy. He lifted his head. Pushed himself up straighter on the sofa. Opened his mouth to say something appropriately gracious. And promptly turned to stone. Because the woman coming toward him with a tea tray in her hands was not Andromeda.

It was his mother.

It had been more than three years since Draco had seen her, but Narcissa hadn’t changed by so much as a hair. She was still tall and slender and graceful, her face flawless, her expression perfectly composed. She was dressed in her most deliberate Just Dropped By For a Visit style—hair down around her shoulders, robes just plain enough that the uninitiated might not realize how staggeringly expensive they were—telling him that this was not intended to be a formal interview but a Friendly Chat.

Draco recognized every detail of her appearance at a glance and knew exactly what game she was playing. He wanted to spring to his feet, rush up the stairs to his son, sweep Bob up in his arms, and apparate them both to safety. But he could not even heave himself up off the sofa without an undignified struggle, much less reach the door before Narcissa got her wand out. He was pinned down, at least for the moment. So all he could do was clutch Mr. Platters to his chest as if it were Bob himself and fix her with a glare that, in a fairer world, would have struck her dead on the spot.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed (as if he didn’t know).

Narcissa ignored the venomous greeting, sweeping up to the sofa and setting the tea tray down on the table in front of him. Then she stooped to brush a kiss to his cheek. Draco recoiled as far as he could which, unfortunately, wasn’t far enough to evade her lips.

“Hello, darling,” she cooed, in her most dulcet tones, “it’s lovely to see you.”

“Get the fuck _away_ from me!” Anger and panic robbed him of his usual eloquence and reduced him to foul-mouthed snarling. “Andromeda! _Andromeda!_ ”

His aunt appeared in the doorway, looking simultaneously shifty, nervous and defiant.

“What have you done with Bob?!” he demanded, trying not to remember that he was seated, wandless and powerless, while these two formidable women towered over him in every possible way. “Where is he?!”

“Upstairs with Teddy, of course.” In that moment, she sounded far too much like Bellatrix, and his panic spiked. “You don’t honestly believe that I would harm your son, do you?”

“Since you lured us into an ambush _,_ I wouldn’t put anything past you!”

“An _ambush?_ ” Andromeda scoffed.

At the same moment, Narcissa chided, “Nonsense, Draco. You’re overreacting, as usual.”

“And you’re breaking the law! Both of you!” Draco grabbed at the arm of the sofa to heave himself upright. Narcissa caught his arm to help him, and he tore himself out of her grip, snarling, “Don’t touch me!”

“Draco, my dear…”

“No! I don’t want to hear it!” He made it to his feet and stepped pointedly away from his mother. “I want my son, and I want to leave. Get him down here, Andromeda! _Now!_ ”

“I’m afraid not, darling,” Narcissa said, with unruffled calm and a just hint of disapproval. She reached into her sleeve, pulled out her wand, and gave it a twitch. Draco felt magic in air but couldn’t identify the spell. “Now, sit down, drink your tea, and behave yourself.”

“I’m not a child, Mother. Stop treating me like one.” He edged around the tea table, afraid of tripping over it once his stomach eclipsed it in his view, then headed for the the hallway, calling, “Bob!”

“Let the boy enjoy himself, Nephew,” Andromeda chided, sidling into his path to stop him.

Pushing her unceremoniously aside, he snarled, “Don’t tell me what—” only to be cut off when he walked stomach-first into a powerful Shield charm. It tossed him back a step, nearly dumping him on the floor. Andromeda’s hand on his arm steadied him, but he was in no mood to appreciate her assistance.

Rounding on her with blood in his eye, he hissed furiously, “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?! Have you locked the floo, as well? Am I your prisoner now?!”

“Don’t be silly. No one’s holding you prisoner. We simply want you to calm down and listen.”

“You have nothing to say that I want to hear.”

“How can you know that, if you won’t listen?”

Draco eyed her in mingled wonder and horror, finally grasping the depths of her need to ingratiate herself with the family that had discarded her so long ago. “You know what she and Father did to me. What they tried to do to Harry and Bob. You know that every choice I’ve made since was to protect my family from their sick dynastic obsessions. And you’re still willing to help her? After she _paid_ _to have me_ _raped?!_ ”

“Enough, Draco,” Narcissa snapped, before Andromeda could respond with more than a wounded look. “You will not attack your aunt for showing proper familial concern, nor will you speak such foul words in my presence.”

“Afraid of the truth, Mother?” he sneered, the effect somewhat ruined by the angry tears gathering in his eyes.

Now that he slowed down enough to think, his panic was giving way to a deep, ugly, painful rage—a rage years in the making. His voice was thick with it, his eyes burning with it, his lashes and cheeks wet with it. He wanted to grab his mother by her hideously-expensive robes and shake her ’til she admitted what she’d done to him, or better yet, to bury himself in Harry’s arms and scream until the hurting stopped.

Once upon a time, it would have been his mother that he turned to for that relief, but never again.

“You are simply parroting what Granger and Potter tell you to appease them,” Narcissa said dismissively, “but you don’t believe it. You know perfectly well that your father and I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Draco stared at her, dumbfounded, and shook his head. “That’s the sickest thing of all. You still don’t believe you hurt me.”

“Come now, darling,” she started toward him, hand outstretched, but halted when he backed away. A flicker of annoyance disturbed her perfect façade, quickly banished. “Thanks to your Aunt Andromeda, we have a chance to sit down and work through our little contretemps. Find common ground. Heal this breach in our family.”

“I’m curious, Mother,” Draco said coldly, “what does common ground look like to you?”

Her eyes flicked down to his pregnant belly, then back up to his face. “We all welcome the arrival of another Malfoy into the world. Is that not a place to start?”

His lip curled disdainfully, and his voice dripped poison when he said, “What a shame it isn’t a Malfoy. So much for common ground. May I go, now, Mother?”

Her face positively hardened now, all vestiges of sweetness gone as her control slipped. “You are being deliberately obtuse. No, my dear son, you may not go until you have heard me out.”

“Then speak your piece, and quickly, because Bob and I are leaving.” He turned toward the spell-blocked doorway and pitched his voice to carry up into the rafters. “Bob! Come downstairs, please!”

“It would be a mistake to bring the boy into this.”

“I frankly don’t give a fuck what you think about it! _Bob!_ ”

He heard the clatter of feet on the ceiling and a murmur of high-pitched voices.

“Draco, neither you nor Felix are going anywhere, unless it’s to the Manor with me. I won’t lose this chance. I must make you see reason.”

“By which you mean, bully me into giving in. Sorry, Mother, but it’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll see. A few days away from Harry Potter’s influence may do much to improve the tone of your mind.”

He turned to gape at her, panic once more rising in him at the realization that she was serious. “You can’t!”

“Oh, but I can. You’ve left me no choice…”

“No, Mother, you _can’t!_ If you take us away from Harry, you’ll kill your grandchild! And probably me with it!”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed.

At that moment, Bob burst into view, scrambling down the stairs, calling, “Papa?”

“In here!”

Teddy appeared behind him, clutching a sleek new broomstick and looking excited. “Can we go flying now, Grandmum? Is it time?” he called.

“Please go back upstairs, Teddy,” Andromeda said sharply, “and take your cousin with you.”

“ _No_.” Draco’s voice cracked like a whip, bringing both boys to an abrupt halt. “Bob, come here right now.”

Bob obediently sprinted forward, only to crash headlong into the Shield charm. He fell back with cry, landed hard on his bum, and looked up at Draco in shock. Tears abruptly flooded his eyes.

“Papaaaa!”

“I told you to leave Felix out of this,” Narcissa scolded.

Bob scrambled to his feet and pressed both hands against the invisible wall of magic that separated him from his father. He was crying steadily, his face already slick with tears and his nose running. Draco took one look at him and felt his heart contract in agony.

Turning on his mother, he hissed, “Cancel the spell! Let him through!”

“When I have your word that you’ll stay here with me and talk. Or come to the Manor which, now that I think of it, is probably the better solution. You and Felix will be safe there, and we won’t be disturbed.”

“You’re mad! I told you…”

At that moment, Bob stunned everyone into silence by stepping through the Shield charm as if it were not there and wrapping his arms around Draco’s legs. Draco looked down into his upturned face, his own jaw sagging idiotically open.

“Papa? Why’d the door do that? What’s wrong?”

With a determined shake of his head, Draco pulled himself together and said, “Nothing, Urchin. We’re going home, now.”

The two women, frozen in shock at Bob’s appearance, now both started talking at once.

“How in Merlin’s name did you do that?” “This changes nothing, Draco!” “No, Teddy, don’t come in here!” “I know you can’t apparate in your condition, and the floo is locked…”

“Papa,” Bob whimpered, still clinging like a limpet to Draco’s legs, doubtful gaze on Narcissa, “who’s that lady?”

“No one,” Draco growled, even as Narcissa stooped over the frightened boy and cooed, at her most honey-sweet, “I’m your grandmama, Felix, and I’m so happy to finally meet you.”

“Get away from him,” Draco hissed.

Bob sniffled pathetically and drew even closer to his father. “I don’t like you,” he declared.

“I’m sure you will when you know me better.”

“You make my Papa mad.”

“We’ll work all that out, then you and I can spend some time together. Won’t that be lovely?”

“No.” Bob freed a hand to tug on Draco’s robes. “I want to go home.”

Draco ached to bend down and scoop his son up in his arms, but as he could neither bend nor scoop with his tummy in the way, much less bear Bob’s weight on top of the baby’s, he had to content himself with reaching down to clasp the tousled head pressed to his thigh.

“We’re going. Take Mr. Platters,” he held out the plushie, then fastened his hand on Bob’s shoulder, “and stay close to me.”

They edged a step or two closer to the fireplace, but Narcissa was squarely in their path, refusing to move.

“Get out of my way, Mother.”

“I will not allow you to leave, Draco.”

“I’m not asking for your permission.”

“We have to talk!”

“If you think I’ll give in to your bullying, let you insinuate yourself into my children’s lives so you can abuse them the way you did me, then you really _don’t know me at all!_ ”

Narcissa drew herself up haughtily, throwing all her pent-up wrath and resentment into the words that dripped like venom from her lips.

“I used to know you, when you were a Malfoy and my son. Now you’re a painted trollop who pouts and postures for another man’s amusement. A sideshow for your famous lover, hoping some small part of his celebrity will rub off on you. A laughingstock. A spoilt child. And now, as if disowning your family and degrading yourself were not enough, a brood mare for the Chosen One.”

“Narcissa, really, I don’t think…” Andromeda began, but foundered when it became clear that neither of the combatants were paying her any mind.

“Well.” Draco drew his lips back in something that was not a smile, eyes locked to his mother’s and burning with a cold, savage fury. “Finally. A bit of truth from the wizarding world’s most accomplished liar.”

“You are forcing me to say these things, Draco. All I wanted, when I came here, was to hold a civil conversation with my son. To discuss the future, our family, the ways that your father and I can share in the lives of our grandchildren.”

“ _You have no grandchildren!_ ” Draco snarled, his hand locking around the curve of Bob’s head and pressing it hard into his thigh.

Bob whimpered softly.

“You’ve made your feelings plain,” he went on, fighting to modulate his voice so he didn’t frighten his son any more than he already had. “You hold me, my husband, and the child we conceived in contempt. So I’m at a loss to understand what you want from me. I’m nothing but a brood mare, remember? Carrying the spawn of the Chosen One? I’m no use to you or father!”

“Don’t be silly. I don’t hold you or your child in contempt. I only deplore the choices you’ve made and the position you have placed us in. But we can move past all of that, if you will only put aside your anger and remember who you are.”

“Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Mother. I will _never_ choose you and father over Harry! I will _never_ let you poison my family the way you did your own! I will _never_ fall for your honeyed lies and manipulation again! If you believe for _one_ _fucking minute_ that I will, then you are completely insane!”

She gave him a stern look down the length of her nose and said, “I am beginning to wonder if that is not the root of the problem. You have lost your grip on reality.”

Draco’s bark of laughter had no hint of amusement in it. “Tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better.”

“Your father and I can get you the help you need…”

“Honestly, Narcissa,” Andromeda snapped, “that’s quite enough! Draco is no more insane than you are, and Harry is not the villain in this or any scenario. You are both losing sight of the goal, here.”

“Which is to force me into an agreement with my lunatic parents,” Draco snapped back.

“Which is,” Andromeda countered, forcefully, “to put aside your differences and heal your family.”

“My family is perfectly fine, and it does not include this woman. Now, Andromeda, if you will unlock your floo, Bob and I will be on our way.”

“I can’t let you leave, Draco. Not like this. Not with so much anger between you and your mother. I’d never forgive myself.”

He turned to face her, fixed her with his most compelling gaze, and threw every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his voice. “You can’t keep us here. And you can’t let my mother take us to the Manor. If you do, my baby and I will both die.”

“Your baby is perfectly healthy. You told me yourself…”

“Because of Harry’s magic! Please, Andromeda, you know it’s true! You’ve heard us talking about it often enough. Without his magic, we won’t last a day!”

“Then I suggest you stop fighting me,” Narcissa said stiffly, bringing Draco round to face her again.

“So you’re using my baby’s life as leverage against me? Is that how you hope to win me over? What in the name of all that’s holy are you _thinking?!_ ”

“That I can’t bear another day apart from my son.”

Were those tears in her eyes? _Salazar’s stinking cock!_ This was a new low, even for her!

Turning back to Andromeda, he all but pleaded, “You have to let us go! You know I’m telling you the truth!”

“I don’t want to put you or your baby at risk, Nephew, but…” Andromeda ventured.

Draco felt his heart sink at that terrible ‘but’. He took a breath, ready to throw himself into the fray again, to fight to the last ditch for himself, his baby, his family, when Bob abruptly broke away from him and grabbed his hand.

“I want to go home, Papa.”

Caught off guard and only too happy to comply, Draco let the little boy drag him over to the floo. Narcissa, as nonplussed as her son, made no move to interfere as they pushed past her. Then Bob was pointing at the bowl on the mantelpiece, demanding, “Get the floo-stuff!”

Draco, only now beginning to grasp what was happening, obediently scooped out a handful, then stepped into the fireplace with his son. No magic interfered. He turned back to see Narcissa eyeing them coldly.

“I will not unlock the floo,” she declared.

Draco vouchsafed her a wry, sideways smile and said, “Suit yourself.” Then he threw down the powder and called, “Number Twelve Grimmauld Place!”

They stumbled out of the fireplace in their own drawing room, Draco sick and shaken by a vicious combination of anger, terror and relief. Bob clung to him, crying. Draco wanted desperately to drop to his knees and take the little boy in his arms, but he knew that if he did, he’d never get back to his feet. So he pulled Bob into his side and clasped his head, petting it soothingly.

“It’s all right, Urchin. We’re home.”

“I broke the spell. Are you mad?”

“No.” He bent as far as he could and slipped an arm around Bob’s trembling shoulders. “No, Bob, I’m not mad. I’m grateful. And so proud of you.”

“That lady scares me.”

“Me, too.” He looked up at that, his eyes going to the fireplace and his guts knotting with fear.

He had to close the floo. He had to keep Narcissa and Andromeda out of this house at all costs, and while Narcissa couldn’t get through the floo on her own, there was a good chance she could with her sister along for the ride. Fresh panic swept through him, and he snatched up the wand he’d left on the mantelpiece.

Pointing it at the fireplace (and conveniently forgetting that he’d promised himself not to risk magic with Bob in the room), he shouted, “ _Protego!_ ”

Nothing happened.

“Fuck!” He shifted the wand to point at a heavy, antique desk. “ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ”

Again, he got nothing.

Pointing the wand at the rug in front of him, he tried one more time. “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

When no fountain of pearly light answered him, he threw his wand across the room, screaming, “ _Fuck!_ ”

“Papa!” Bob tugged on his robes and wailed, “Papaaaa!”

“Sorry… I’m sorry…”

He looked wildly around, searching for inspiration, while his panic wound tighter and tighter, and helplessness closed like a fist around his throat, choking him. He had no magic. He had two children to protect, a house to defend, a partner to summon, and _no fucking magic!_

For a terrible moment, he thought he might die right there on the hearthrug, throttled by his own fear. Then he abruptly came to his senses and headed for the door at a near-run. Bob trailed after him, clinging to the skirt of his robes.

“Where’re we going?”

“Stay close to me,” Draco ordered. He started down the stairs, moving as fast as his swollen body would allow and trying not to trip over Bob.

“Papa! I’m scared!”

“I can’t carry you now, Bob. Just stay with me, _please._ ”

They reached the ground floor and Harry’s office. Draco strode in and over to the desk. Tearing open drawers in frantic haste, he found parchment, quill and ink, then scrawled a quick note in an uncharacteristically messy hand. Once it was sealed and addressed, he added URGENT in red ink across the front.

Odin, Harry’s decrepit one-eyed owl, looked none too happy to see Draco bearing down on him with a square of parchment in his hands, but Draco didn’t give him time to escape. He grabbed the bird by his feet and carried him to the nearest window, haranguing him all the way.

“This letter is for Harry. You have to get it to him at the Ministry as fast as possible. I’m relying on you, you mangy bird! Don’t fail me, or I’ll turn you into a novelty hat, understand? That means, don’t fly into any light poles, don’t make any wrong turns, _don’t_ drop the letter, and once you hand it over to those drones in the Mail room, don’t let them stick in some cubbyhole! Bite every hand in the room, if you have to, but make sure they actually _look at it!_ ”

The owl hooted miserably and accepted the letter Draco held out to him. Then Draco tossed him out the window and slammed it shut.

If only he had enough magic to make a Howler! Even those clots at the Ministry wouldn’t delay one of those!

The helplessness and panic gripped him again, and he hurried over to where Bob lurked by the desk, looking up at him tearfully.

“Is Daddy coming?”

“Yes, but we need to find a safe place to wait for him.”

Bob began to cry again, huge tears rolling down his cheeks. “I want Daddy!”

“So do I,” Draco muttered.

He had no idea where in that great barrack of a house to go where he’d feel safe without Harry there to protect him, but he couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t stay still. Not until he had something solid between his baby and danger. Both his babies.

His feet started moving without his conscious direction, and before he knew it, he was climbing the stairs. Again, he ached to carry Bob, but he knew he’d never make it up all those stairs with that much weight in his arms. So he climbed and climbed, Bob close on his heels and gulping down his sobs, until they reached the third floor and their bedrooms. He hesitated at the door to the master suite then, on impulse, turned for the nursery instead.

The little room, with its fluffy yellow ducklings and ceiling full of stars, offered no place to hide. Draco’s rational brain knew that this made no difference. No physical barrier would stop Narcissa, if she made it through the wards. But his rational brain had long since surrendered, and his irrational, instinctive brain had taken over. It told him to find someplace small, someplace sheltered, so he did.

First, he slammed the door. Then he dragged the nearest piece of furniture that he could actually move—a small chest of drawers—in front of it. Another glance around the room, another jolt of panic to his guts, told him that wasn’t enough. So, in desperation, he jerked the bed away from its place in the corner, opening a gap between it and the back wall, and clambered over it. Finally, seated on the floor with his back to a wall and his knees drawn up as far as they would go, he held out his hands to Bob.

The little boy crawled into his arms. Pressed up against his side until he was draped over his tremendous belly. Wrapped his arms around Draco’s neck and burrowed his face into his shoulder. And Draco could breathe at last.

“Papa?” The little voice was muffled by the collar of his robes and soggy with tears. “Are you scared?”

“Yes, Urchin.”

“Can the scary lady find us?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

“What’ll we do, if she comes?”

Draco swallowed the lump in his throat and rasped out, with as much certainty as he could muster, “I’ll fight her.” _Or go with her,_ he finished to himself, _anything so she doesn’t touch you._

Bob whimpered softly. Draco closed his eyes and held onto his son for dear life.

* * *

The wards sparked. Footsteps pounded on the stairs, and a blessedly familiar voice, muffled by doors and walls, called, “Draco?! Draco, where are you?!”

Bob stirred in his arms. Lifted his head. “Daddy?”

Draco wanted to call out, to climb out of his hiding place, to run into Harry’s arms, but his body would not cooperate. He was still paralyzed with fear and a sense of his own failure. What if Harry blamed him? What if he was too late, and Narcissa was already inside the house, ready to waylay them? What if it wasn’t Harry at all, but a cruel trap?

Magic brushed his skin, telling him that someone was trying to locate him. Then the footsteps sounded again, moving closer. They halted at the closed door. The knob rattled, and the door thunked into the chest of drawers.

“Draco? Felix?”

“Daddy!” Bob called.

Still, Draco’s mouth and body refused to respond to his brain. He just sat there, clutching Bob to him with arms that would not loosen.

There was a sudden burst of magic. The chest flew half across the room, and the door slammed open. Draco peered over the edge of the bed to see Harry standing in the doorway, swathed in Auror red and crackling with magic. He held his wand in his hand—a sure sign that he meant business—and gold sparks flew from its tip. His fierce green eyes locked on Draco’s fear-glazed grey ones. Suddenly, Draco could move again.

“Harry! Thank Circe!” He tried to get an elbow up the mattress for leverage without letting go of Bob, but only succeeded in whacking it painfully on the wooden bedstead. “Ouch! _Fuck!_ ”

“Draco? What’re you doing back there? What’s wrong?”

Harry crossed the floor in a few strides, rounded the bed, and extended a hand to pull Draco to his feet. Then, miraculously, Draco found both himself and Bob in Harry’s arms. He clung to his husband with one hand, to Bob with the other, and felt a treacherous sob rise in his throat.

“Oh, fuck, Harry…” Then he began to weep in earnest.

“Hey,” Harry murmured, “it’s okay. Whatever happened, it’s okay now.”

“It was the scary lady,” Bob informed him.

“Scary lady?” Draco could feel Harry tense, and he looked up to find the other man frowning at him. “What scary lady?”

“My mother. She was at the cottage.”

“What the _fuck?!_ Andromeda didn’t warn you?!”

“Andromeda arranged it. The visit was a ruse to get us in the same room.”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Harry swore again. Then, more urgently, “What did she do, Draco? Did she hurt you? Did she _touch you?_ ”

“No.”

“What about the baby? If she tried anything…”

“No, it’s okay, really.”

Harry caught Draco’s head between his hands and tilted his face up, then swore yet again at the sight of the tears streaking his cheeks. “I’ll fucking kill her if she did anything to you or our baby! I swear I will!”

“She didn’t. She tried to keep me there and threatened to take me to the Manor if I didn’t cooperate with her, but Bob rescued me.”

Harry turned startled eyes on their son. “What did you do, little man?”

“I told the spell to stop.” Bob stuck a finger in his mouth and gave Harry a worried look through his lashes. “You said it’s rude to break spells, but Papa was scared. An’ I was scared. An’ I wanted to come home.”

“Oh, Felix, Felix!” Harry plucked the boy from Draco’s arms and pulled him close, then gave him a smacking kiss that made him giggle in spite of his tears. “You beautiful, brilliant boy!”

“It’s okay to be rude to the scary lady?”

“It’s okay to help your Papa when his magic doesn’t work and to get yourself away from someone who’s frightening you.” Then his attention shifted to Draco again, and his arm slipped around his waist. “But why were you hiding in here?”

“I couldn’t lock the wards,” Draco said tightly. “I was afraid that Andromeda would come through the floo—or worse, bring my mother—and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do about it.”

“Well, I can,” Harry said fiercely. “Come on.”

With that, he swept his family out the door and down the stairs. Bob still clung to him like a limpet. Draco stayed in the circle of his arm, happy to trip over his robes with every other step if it meant staying in close contact with his body and confident that Harry would catch him if he lost his footing. They reached the drawing room. Harry set Bob down on the sofa before crossing to the hearth.

The little boy wailed in protest, but Draco sat down next to him and pulled him tight into his side. Then, together, they watched Harry approach the fireplace.

He used his wand—for control, Draco assumed—but no words. The magic was undetectable. Only his change in posture, when he lowered his wand and turned to face his audience, told Draco that it was done.

Crossing swiftly to the sofa, Harry cupped Draco’s upturned face in his hand and brushed his damp cheek with his thumb. “I’ve blocked them both from the floo and the wards. Teddy can still get in, but not if Andromeda is with him.” Another stroke of his thumb, and his voice dropped to a caress. “You’re safe, love. You, Felix, little Amortentius…”

Draco did not rise to the bait, but he did relax enough to smile up at husband. “Thank you.”

“Will you be all right alone here for a bit?”

His smile abruptly died. “Why? Where are you going?”

“To have a few choice words with your aunt. And with your mother, if she’s still there.”

“Harry, no.” His hand closed on Harry’s wrist, as the helpless panic rose in his throat to choke him again. “Don’t,” he rasped out, “don’t bother with them! Just let it go!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

Only Draco, who knew Harry better than any other human being on the planet, could see that his deadly calm was actually a fury so potent that it threatened to tear apart the very fabric of the air. To light the world on fire. To melt flesh and bone together and boil the blood out of them. It fascinated and terrified him in equal measure—this incredible, all-consuming power in his husband—and it made the thought of Harry confronting his mother all the more appalling.

“She didn’t hurt us,” he insisted, “I swear it!”

“And she won’t. Ever. I swear it.”

“Please, Harry…”

The loving hand on his cheek was infinitely gentle, but the voice that came out of Harry’s mouth might have belonged to another man. There was not a particle of warmth or yielding in it. “Stay here with Felix, and don’t open the wards for anyone. I won’t be long.”

Then he stepped back and turned on the spot, disappearing with a crack, even as Bob wailed a miserable, “ _Daddy!_ ” and Draco swore helplessly at him.

* * *

Harry appeared on the cobbled walk in Andromeda’s front garden, heedless of what Muggles might be passing by. Luckily, there were none, and he wasn’t forced by his own recklessness to Obliviate some hapless jogger. He took a moment to compose himself—to tamp down his rage and magic—then he strode up to the door and knocked.

Andromeda was clearly waiting for him. She opened the door before he could lower his hand. Her face was composed and unsmiling, showing not a hint of fear, even when he pinned her with a burning glare that would have cooked a lesser woman in her boots.

“Hello, Harry. I’ve been expecting you.”

“I’m sure you have,” he said through his teeth.

“Please, come in.”

She ushered him into the sitting room with all the aplomb of a hostess welcoming an honored guest. Harry stalked at her heels, letting her lack of emotion feed his anger until he was positively sizzling with it, while a treacherous voice in the back of his head whispered that this was Andromeda. Teddy’s grandmother. A woman he loved and respected. Someone who—until today—he had trusted implicitly.

As he stepped into the room, he scanned it quickly, hoping to see Narcissa Malfoy. Instead, he saw Teddy seated on the sofa, a cup of tea in his hand and a plate of chocolate biscuits on his lap. Some of his anger bled away.

At the sight of his godfather, Teddy abandoned his tea and bounded to his feet, crying, “Harry!”

“Hey, Teddy.”

The boy scurried over to claim his usual hug. Harry gave it, but he kept his head up and his eyes on Andromeda as he did so.

“Did you come to see my new broom?” Teddy demanded, eyes sparkling and hair turning a cheerful turquoise. “It’s really cool! A Nimbus Nighthawk!”

“Sounds brilliant,” Harry said with a strained smile.

“I was gonna give Felix a ride, but he had to leave. Cousin Draco wasn’t feeling good.”

“Yeah. Well, maybe you can come over to Grimmauld Place sometime soon, and I’ll take you boys flying. We’ll see how your Nighthawk does against my Firebolt.”

“Really? Wicked!”

Andromeda had watched all this without visible reaction, but at Harry’s offer, she pursed her lips and said, “Harry and I will have to discuss any such p—”

Harry cut her off with a swift, deadly look, then turned back to his godson. “Will you do me a favor, Ted?”

He only ever used the shortened version of Teddy’s name—the grown-up version that called up visions of his granddad—when he meant business. The boy instantly sobered at the sound of it. His eyes were wide and solemn when they lifted to Harry’s face.

“I need to talk to Andromeda alone. Will you take your tea and biscuits into the kitchen? Give us some privacy?”

“Okay.” His little shoulders drooping, he collected his plate and cup, then headed for the kitchen. Stopping just inside the room, he turned back to fix Harry with a troubled gaze. “Is something wrong, Harry?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, little man.”

“Is it Cousin Draco’s baby? Did something happen to it?”

Harry’s heart turned over. “Why would you think that?”

“Before, when Cousin Draco was here, everybody was yelling. It was really bad. Felix got so scared that he did magic, even though he’s not s’posed to, then Cousin Draco said something about the baby dying if…”

“Oh, no.” Harry crossed to him in a few strides and pulled his head into his side. He stroked the boy’s bright hair and bent close to murmur, softly, “No, love, it’s not that. Draco and the baby are just fine.”

“You promise?” Teddy asked hopefully.

“I promise.”

“Okay.” He stepped away from Harry, offering him a small smile. Then he turned and padded away toward the kitchen.

When he was out of sight, Harry cast a quick _Muffliato_ , just in case things got out of hand, and turned back to Andromeda. She was standing with her back to the fireplace, her head tilted up in a characteristically haughty pose, and her grave mask still in place. Harry tried to stir up his righteous anger in response. It wouldn’t come. Teddy’s presence had caught him off guard, cooled the fire in his belly, left him with only regret and the taste of ashes in his mouth.

If only Narcissa were still here. His lawful prey. Then he could wreak his awful vengeance on her and soothe the slavering beast inside him that wanted so desperately to _make someone pay!_ Instead, he was left only with Andromeda, a woman he could not hate.

Under the weight of his steady gaze, she let her chin drop and a hint of uncertainty show in her face. “Were you telling the truth or just trying to reassure Teddy?”

“About what?”

“Draco and the baby.”

“It was the truth.”

Her shoulders abruptly sagged in relief. “I knew he was only trying to frighten us, but even so…” Then she turned away, biting her lips. “My nephew has a gift for the dramatic that can be amusing, under the right circumstances, but I’m afraid I am not inclined to laugh.”

Harry’s anger stirred. Lifted its head. “No one is laughing.”

“Talk to him, Harry.” She turned back to face him, real concern and a touch of pleading in her eyes that confounded him. “Make him see that he can’t treat his mother this way…”

The anger bared its fangs and hissed. Harry gave a humorless bark of laughter.

“Merlin, Andromeda! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that Narcissa has you under the Imperius Curse!”

Her lips compressed into a tight line, and her cheeks flushed dark. “That was uncalled for.”

“Was it? I don’t think so. But rest assured that I will _not_ be pleading his mother’s case to Draco. I came here to tell you that this insanity stops now. The next time Lucius and Narcissa come for Draco, they’ll have me to deal with, and I won’t be as kind as the Wizengamot. Azkaban will seem like a resort vacation compared to what I’ll do to them. And as for you…”

He trailed off, looking into her reproachful eyes and wishing he had any other solution to this ghastly mess.

“As for me?”

“I’m sorry. I am. But you made your choice today, and there’s no going back.”

“What are you saying, Harry?”

“You chose Narcissa over Draco.”

“That’s ridiculous! There are no sides, here! Draco and Narcissa are my family, and I won’t let you force me to choose between them!”

He shook his head. “When you let Narcissa drag you into her twisted plots, you gave up any right to call yourself Draco’s family.”

Tears started in Andromeda’s eyes—something Harry had never seen before and devoutly hoped he’d never see again. “You speak of her with such contempt, but she’s my sister, and she asked for my help.”

“What about Draco? He’s your nephew. He needed your help, but you tricked him and trapped him and left him vulnerable to a woman who’s proven time and time again that she can’t be trusted.”

“She never would have hurt him!”

“She sent hit-wizards to kidnap his child and nearly killed him. Did you forget that?”

“I…” Fresh tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “That was a terrible accident.”

“The only accidental part of it was that the curse hit Draco instead of me. Think about that, Andromeda. If Narcissa had her way, I’d be dead, and Felix would living in Slovenia, the property of his grandparents.”

“Why do you hate her so much?”

“Because she’s done unforgivable things to a man I love more than my life. Because she wants to do more of the same to my innocent son. Because she tricked someone else I love into conniving with her, and now I have to cut that person out of my life to protect my family. Is that reason enough, or do you need more?”

A sob shook her. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, then said, in a choked voice, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. That’s the other thing I came here to say.” He gave her a level look with a measure of pity in it, but no relenting. “You’re no longer welcome in our home. Don’t try to contact us. Don’t floo-call or send owls—we won’t accept them—and don’t try to get through the wards.”

“You can’t be serious!” she gasped. “What about Teddy?!”

“The floo is still open for him. He can call or visit anytime. But he comes alone, and I won’t be coming here again, unless it’s to fetch him.”

“What if… what if there’s an emergency and I can’t reach you?”

“Contact Molly. She’ll relay the message.”

“Harry, you _can’t do this!_ I would never hurt your husband or children! You _know this!_ ”

“I thought I did, but after today, I’m not so sure. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. Draco needs to feel safe, and he won’t as long as he’s afraid that you or his mother will ambush him again. So I’m making sure neither of you can.” He met her wide, tragic eyes and added, almost softly, “I told you, Andromeda, there’s no going back from this.”

“Please.”

He shook his head. “You might relay my message to Lucius and Narcissa. Or not. I don’t expect they’ll take any notice. Say goodbye to Teddy for me, and tell him I’ll take him flying soon.”

“Harry, _please_.” She put a hand on his arm, and he could feel it trembling. “Talk to Draco. Assure him that I meant no harm…”

“I won’t.” He lifted her hand pointedly away. “Maybe, after the baby’s born or his parents are packed off to Azkaban where they belong, Draco will decide he wants to see you again, but that’s entirely up to him. I won’t pressure him into anything.”

“Will you give him my love, at least?”

Harry paused, thought of Draco’s state when he’d left him, then said firmly, “Goodbye, Andromeda.”

She didn’t answer, just pressed her hand to her lips again and watched through her tears, as Harry turned on his heel and stepped into the crushing darkness.

The instant Harry appeared on the hearthrug, Draco was up off the sofa and in his arms, clumsiness and poor balance forgotten in his haste. Harry gathered him as close as his enormous stomach would allow and cradled his head against his shoulder. Draco took a heaving breath, then another, then seemed to deflate as the tension drained from his body.

After a long, quiet moment—during which Harry savored the feel of his husband in his arms and Felix watched them solemnly from his place on the sofa—Draco finally spoke.

“How many bodies did you leave behind you?”

“No bodies,” Harry assured him. “No blood on the floor. I didn’t even draw my wand.”

“Like that would slow you down?”

The would-be-snarky comment came out all wrong—too shaky by half—but Harry smiled dutifully, acknowledging the effort. “I told Andromeda how things stand, that’s all. Your mother wasn’t there.”

“Turned tail and ran, I suppose. Afraid to face you.” That one was more like the Draco he knew. Bitter, but steady.

“Or too prudent.”

“Well, no one ever accused my mother of being stupid.”

Harry’s smile was entirely natural this time. He stroked Draco’s hair, dropped a kiss on his head, and murmured, “Nope. Can we forget about her, now?”

Draco hesitated. Gathered his nerve. Then said, “She won’t give up this easily.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You never are, you bloody Gryffindor.”

“Neither are you, really. You know I’ll protect you.”

Draco’s arms tightened around him, and his voice came out as a muffled wail. “You can’t protect me when you’re off somewhere playing Auror with the Weasel! Don’t go back to the Ministry, Harry, not today!”

Harry looked from Draco’s bent head to Felix’s woebegone face and came to a snap decision. “I won’t.”

Robards might threaten to sack him for skiving off work yet again, but so be it. His boys needed him.

* * *

The sparking of the wards woke Harry from a light doze. The room was dark, but a glance at his watch told him that it was still early evening. Beside him, Draco was curled into a lump beneath the blankets, Felix tucked in around his tummy. Both were dead asleep, though it was not yet six o’clock.

The wards tingled again, more insistently. Carefully, so as not to wake the sleepers, he disentangled himself from Draco’s arms and the blankets, then climbed off the bed and padded out of the room in his stockinged feet to answer the floo. Ron’s head was floating in the drawing room fireplace, surrounded by a corona of green flames. He looked relieved at the sight of Harry in the doorway.

“There you are! I was beginning to worry!”

“Hullo, Ron,” Harry ambled over and dropped to a crouch on the hearth, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “What’s up?”

“You tell me. You tore out of the office like your arse was on fire and never came back.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Were you really asleep at this hour?” Ron’s eyes narrowed, as the obvious explanation for Harry’s erratic behavior occurred to him. “Is Ferret all right?”

Harry pondered how to answer that. Draco was physically fine—his encounter with his mother had done nothing more dire than raise his blood pressure a bit—but his mental state was something else all together. It had taken Harry a full afternoon of doting and pampering to get his husband into a state approaching calm. Only after a foot rub, a bubble bath, sandwiches and hot cocoa tucked up in bed, hours of reading aloud from several of Felix’s favorite books (about platypuses and dragons, mostly) and one of Draco’s ponderous legal tomes, had Draco and Felix finally fallen asleep. And by then, the soporific effects of Magical Law had rendered Harry tired enough to drop off himself.

After all of that, was Draco all right? Probably not. Harry certainly wasn’t.

“He’s asleep,” was Harry’s ultimate answer.

Ron, of course, recognized a dodge when he heard one. “What happened, Harry? You might as well tell me. I’ll just get it out of Malfoy, if you don’t.”

So Harry told him, leaving out only the part about finding Draco huddled behind a bed in a barricaded nursery. Ron was fuming by the time he finished, ready to storm the Manor and arrest Narcissa for defying the Wizengamot order _again._ Harry only talked him down by promising that he could make one of the Auror Strike Force that went in to arrest the Malfoys, should it come to that.

“What about Andromeda?” he demanded. “What are you going to do about her?”

“It’s already done. She’s cut off ’til Draco says otherwise.”

“Merlin. That’s not going to go over well with Mum.”

“Well, she’d better keep her opinions to herself because I’m really not in the mood to listen. I’ve had enough badgering from my family to last me a lifetime.”

“You won’t get any from me!” Ron assured him. Then, his head cocked thoughtfully and his eyes going soft with worry, “Do you need backup? ’Mione’s still at work, so I don’t have to go home straight away. I could maybe do a french fry run…”

“No, thanks, I’ve got it covered. But I should get back, in case Draco or Felix wakes up.” He waved over his shoulder in the general direction of the stairs.

“Yeah.” Ron paused, staring intently at Harry, then ventured, “You’d tell us if Ferret was in real trouble, right? You wouldn’t go all Chosen One on us and try to handle it by yourself?”

“I wouldn’t, I promise. But he’s okay, really. Or he will be.”

“All right then.” He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it. “See you tomorrow, Harry.”

“See you.”

When Ron had signed off, Harry made his way back upstairs to the bedroom. The two bodies in the bed had not moved since he’d left, so he was surprised, when he slipped under the covers, to hear a soft voice in the darkness.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?” He curled closer to Draco, leaning past Felix’s huddled form to rest his head on the pillow just a handspan from his husband’s. From this close, he could see that Draco’s eyes were wide open.

“Who was that?”

“Ron. He offered to make a french fry run.” Harry reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Draco’s ear, then rested his palm against his cheek. “I told him not to bother.”

Draco said nothing to this—not even an outraged demand to know what he was thinking in rejecting an offer of french fries—just looked at him with those too-big eyes. They seemed to twist in Harry’s chest like a knife.

“Draco…”

Between them, Felix suddenly stirred, twisted onto his back and opened his eyes, calling, “Papa?”

“Right here,” Draco murmured, stroking a hand over his hair.

“ _Ummm._ ” He yawned widely. Then, as quickly as he’d woken, he dropped back to sleep, with his head burrowed into Draco’s chest and his thumb jammed in his mouth.

“Poor little urchin,” Draco whispered, still petting Felix’s hair. “You would have been proud of him, Harry. He was brilliant. As brave as any Gryffindor. And all I did was frighten him with my stupid hysterics.”

“No,” Harry protested in a hushed, pained voice. Felix twitched again, and he cast a quick Muting spell so they wouldn’t wake him. Then he scooted still closer to Draco and slid his fingers into his hair to clasp his head. “You did your best, Draco.”

“I forced my three-year-old son to rescue me.”

“You rescued each other, and I’m proud of you both.”

Draco drew in a ragged breath, and Harry abruptly realized that he was crying. “I was so scared.”

“I know, love. Shh.” Harry pulled him into a gentle kiss, tasting salt on his lips. “You don’t have to be scared of your mother anymore.”

“It’s not her! Or… not only… oh, _fuck!_ ”

“Draco. Love, please.”

Frustrated by the little body between them, keeping him away from his suffering husband, Harry hoisted Felix up on a cushion of magic and transferred him to lie against his own back. Then he gathered Draco into his arms and tucked his head under his chin. He could feel the other man’s body shaking, could feel tears wetting his own skin, but he couldn’t hear a sound. Draco wept silently. Painfully. With none of his usual histrionics or demands for attention.

Harry began to cry himself, his tears dripping into Draco’s hair. His voice was thick and soggy when he whispered, “Tell me what it is, love. Tell me.”

“I couldn’t _do anything!_ ” Draco sobbed. “I couldn’t protect Bob or myself or the baby… couldn’t stop her from taking us away… c-couldn’t reach you to tell you what hap-pened… I was _helpless!_ Like a _Squib!_ ”

“But you weren’t. Draco, you weren’t.”

“I just stood there… listening to her threaten to k-kidnap me…”

“You got away. You got home. You sent Odin for me. Draco, you don’t need magic to be smart and powerful.”

“I need magic to fight my _fucking mother!_ ”

“No,” Harry stroked his hair, kissed his head, threw every ounce of love and certainty he possessed into his words, “you’ve got me for that. And I will always fight for you, love.”

“Fucking Gryffindor.”

“That’s me. The ultimate Fucking Gryffindor.”

Draco made a very soggy sound that might have been a chuckle. “Git.”

“Twat.”

“Chosen One.”

“You’ll pay for that one.” Harry stroked his head again, then tilted it up so he could kiss him. “You’ll pay and pay and pay…”

Draco laughed again, and this time, there was no mistaking it. The storm was passing, Harry judged, for the time being at least. The next time Draco felt backed into a corner, he might panic again. Or he might remember that he was smarter and more powerful than anyone who dared threaten him, with or without a wand. And that he always had Harry to back him up.

Always.

**_To be continued…_ **


	3. Oobleck

Harry stepped out of the floo, a cardboard box tucked under his arm and a half-hopeful, half-shamefaced smile on his lips. He glanced quickly around the drawing room, eager to greet his husband, only to find it empty. His smile faltered.

“Draco?” he called.

Footsteps sounded from a floor or two above, and Felix’s voice filtered down to him. “Daddy’s home!”

“Come down to the drawing room, love! I’ve got something for you!”

As he waited for Draco to make his careful way down the stairs, Harry shifted nervously from one foot to the other, his confidence flagging. This would have been so much easier if he could have done it the Gryffindor way—just plunge in headfirst without waiting to consider the consequences—but every handful of seconds that ticked by reminded him how touchy and difficult his husband could be. How unpredictable. How perverse. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t trouble Harry. He’d just laugh it off, tease Draco into a smile, and cajole him into accepting the gift he’d brought with his best hopeful-puppy-dog look. But these circumstances were far from normal.

Draco was struggling. Harry could see it, even if the other man did his best to hide it by swanning about the house, dropping snarky comments, making petulant demands, and dragging Harry into empty rooms for a quick, furious fuck up against a wall. The flash of panic in his eyes when Felix bounced up and raced out of the room betrayed him. As did the way he stood at the window, staring at the spot where the house-elves no longer sat (all the more ominous for its emptiness). And the way he clung to Harry for just a few heartbeats longer than necessary after every kiss or touch.

He was frightened—of letting Felix out of his sight or Harry out of his arms, of stepping outside the wards even under Harry’s best glamour—and fighting with everything in him to deny it. But Harry wasn’t fooled, and he wasn’t content to let his husband suffer in silence. He had to draw Draco out of himself, give him something besides his parents and his fears to focus on.

That’s what tonight’s surprise was all about. It was Harry’s way of distracting Draco from his troubles. The fact that the distraction in this little box was far more Harry’s idea of an ideal gift than Draco’s did not daunt him—or it hadn’t until he was forced to stand here fretting about it.

Felix dashed into the room and over to where Harry stood, wrapping his arms around his leg. “Daddy! Daddy! What’s in the box? Is it a present?”

“Yes, but not for you. Go sit down, little man, and keep quiet.”

Draco appeared in the doorway, looking faintly rumpled and entirely beautiful. He paused to take in his grinning husband, his wide-eyed son, and the cardboard box. A smile tilted his lips.

“Bribes, Potter?”

“Just lavishing you with affection, as you deserve. Felix, sit down. And not a peep until I tell you.”

Recognizing the authority in his father’s voice, Felix obeyed. He crawled into an armchair, folded his hands in his lap, and gazed raptly at the box Harry held. Draco also obeyed Harry, crossing the room to him when he held out a hand, then settling onto the sofa under its pressure. He looked up expectantly at his foolishly-grinning husband.

“Well?”

Harry set the cardboard box on the upper curve of Draco’s tummy with a flourish. “For you, my darling.”

“You couldn’t put a bow on it?” Draco taunted.

Harry rolled his eyes and laughed.

Draco reached to remove the lid, then froze, fingers poised a hairsbreadth above it. His eyes—fixed on the box—narrowed. Then they flicked up to Harry, and his gaze was now sharp as Goblin-forged steel. “It has air holes.”

“Does it?”

“The last time you brought a box with air holes into this house, it had a baby in it.”

Harry opened his eyes very wide, going for Felix-levels of faux innocence. “No babies, honestly! Just a little present for you.”

“A present that needs air holes.”

“Hmm? Oh. Well.” He shifted from one foot to the other, then waved a hand at the box. “Just open it, you prat.”

Draco shot Harry another lethally sharp glare before finally pulling off the lid. At the same time, Harry silently banished the Muting spell he’d put on the box to preserve the surprise. For a heartbeat, no one moved. The three figures in the room were frozen in a comical tableau—Draco brandishing the lid in one hand and staring down into the box as if it contained a severed head; Harry holding his breath in mingled excitement and nervousness; Felix straining forward in his chair. Then, small and piercing, came a plaintive _mew_ that abruptly shattered the spell holding them all.

Draco dropped the lid and plucked a tiny, squirming, inky-black body from the box. Felix let out an _Eeep!_ of delight, quickly smothered when he clapped both hands over his mouth. Harry blew out his breath in an adoring sigh, as he looked down into the gold-green eyes of the kitten dangling from Draco’s fingers. The kitten itself flailed its paws and mewed again, baring its minuscule fangs as it cried.

“Potter.” Draco spoke without taking his eyes from the creature in his hand. “What in the name of Merlin’s blessed balls have you done?”

“Brought you a kitten.”

“Me?” Now Draco looked at him, and Harry struggled to interpret what he saw in the other man’s eyes. “You brought _me_ a _kitten?_ ”

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

“ _Have you lost your fu—_ ”

“Careful,” Harry warned, cutting a glance at Felix.

Draco swallowed the offending word and fell back on glaring. “We just got rid of the last mangy feline you brought into this house. And you promised me— _promised me, Potter!_ —not to adopt anymore animals!”

The kitten, still dangling from Draco’s fingers like a particularly rank nappy, squirmed and cried again, pushing poor Felix beyond his endurance.

“Please, can I hold it, Papa?” he wailed, little hands held out toward the kitten.

“Not now, Felix,” Harry answered for him. “Let Papa get to know her first.”

“I don’t want to get to know her,” Draco hissed, even as he (unconsciously, Harry was sure), pulled her against his chest and cradled a hand under her feet. The kitten burrowed into his warm shirt, mewing steadily. “I want to know why you’re breaking your word to me and filling our house with foundling animals again!”

“She’s not a foundling! She’s… okay, maybe she is. But that doesn’t mean she’s part of my menagerie! I’m done with all that. Odin and the salamander are _it_ , I _swear_.”

“And yet, here we have a foundling kitten in a cardboard box…”

“For you. I brought her for you, Draco.” Harry abruptly sat down beside him on the sofa and reached to stroke the kitten’s head with expert fingers. “Remember what you told me about your first kitten?”

Draco’s face tightened at that.

“Well, no one’s taking this one away from you. She’s yours. You get to do whatever you want with her.”

“Whatever I want?” Draco demanded.

“Except feed her to the owl,” Harry hurried to clarify.

Draco gazed down at the tiny black furball in his hands, his face unreadable. The kitten fixed him with her gold-green eyes and mewed. His fingers instinctively found the sweet spot behind her ear and started to rub, turning her cries to purrs.

“Where did you get her?” he finally asked.

“One of the Magical Maintenance workers found her in the Visitor’s phone box. I think she must have gotten trapped there and made herself a bit of a nest. They were going to turn her loose on the street…”

“And you couldn’t have that,” Draco murmured, throwing him a knowing look through his lashes.

“I had her under my desk in the office for nearly a week. Then I thought… well, I thought you two could help each other out.”

“You’re an imbecile, Harry.”

“Yeah?” he said hopefully.

Draco did not vouchsafe any further comment, but called to Felix, “Come here, urchin.”

Felix climbed down from his chair and sidled over to the sofa.

“You may pet her, if you’re careful. Use just your fingertips. That’s it…”

Draco did not thank Harry for the kitten. He did not say one kind word to the little creature. But he also did not let her out of his hands for the rest of the evening. Felix was granted permission to pet her and kiss her goodnight, then Draco settled onto the sofa for his evening tea-and-foot-rub with the kitten curled on his chest. When he and Harry climbed into bed that night, the kitten came with them. She found herself a place on Draco’s pillow but quickly slid down into the curve of his neck, and for all his disgust at having a mangy feline foisted on him, Draco let her stay.

Once he’d extinguished the lamps, Harry curled into Draco’s side and rested a proprietary hand on his belly. Draco, unusually, did not roll over so Harry could spoon up behind him, just lay on a heap of pillows with the kitten purring against his throat.

“Feeling all right?” Harry murmured. He didn’t really need to ask. He could feel that the baby was quiet, telling him that the potions and spells had done their work. But it was part of their nightly routine that he checked on the welfare of his husband and child.

“Mmm,” was all Draco said. His eyes were shut and his face already going soft with approaching sleep.

Harry swept his hand over the mound of Draco’s tummy until he felt a tiny limb press against his palm. Then he paused to enjoy the sensation. Draco sighed in satisfaction and rested his own hand atop Harry’s.

Harry bent down to kiss his not-a-bump. “My boys are tired?”

“Mmm… ’M always tired,” Draco murmured.

“Draco?” Harry whispered, before lacing his fingers through Draco’s and dropping another kiss on his tummy. “Did I do okay?” He swallowed the lump in his throat to add, “You’re not mad?”

Draco’s lashes lifted just enough for Harry to catch the gleam of grey beneath them, and the corner of his mouth twitched up just enough to reveal his dimple. “You’re an insufferable Gryffindor git, and I’ll never speak to you again.”

Harry broke out in a relieved grin. “That’s what I thought. Good night, love.”

“Shut it and go to sleep.”

*** *** ***

Draco sailed into the kitchen the next morning with a tiny, coal-black kitten perched happily on the upper curve of his stomach (like a raja riding an elephant Harry observed, which earned him a clout to the back of the head). He took his seat at the table, the kitten still in place, so that her face peered curiously over the table’s edge at a delighted Felix. Draco pretended not to notice the odd image he presented, but Harry caught a smile hovering about his lips and lurking in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

“So, what are you and the raja doing today?” Harry asked, as he set a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of his husband.

“Nothing to concern you. And rajas are male, you ignorant clot. She would be a rani.”

“If you say so… Hey! That’s the perfect name for her!” He reached around Draco to tickle the kitten under the chin. “Isn’t it, sweet Rani?”

Draco slapped his hand away (very carefully, so as not to hit the kitten by mistake) and said, with every ounce of disdain he possessed in his tone, “This is one member of the family you will _not_ be naming, Potter.”

Harry smothered his smirk of triumph at that description. “Why? What are you going to call her?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but you will have no part in the decision.” He gave Harry a squinty look. “Absolutely none.”

“You want to name her something dreadful, don’t you? Clot or Imbecile or Git.”

“No, those names are reserved for you.”

“Well, I think Felix and I ought to have a vote.”

“You gave me this animal, Potter, that makes it my right to name her. _Without_ taking a vote!”

“Fine. But then I get to name the baby…”

“You do _not…!_ ” Draco began, only to catch sight of Harry’s grin and turn his head away, biting his lips to hide his smile.

“So.” Harry dropped down onto the bench beside him, plate in hand. “If you’re not working today, why not go pick up some supplies for your little Rani? There’s a Muggle pet shop on the High Street, and I could set you up with a brilliant glamour before I leave.”

Even as he said it, Harry knew what Draco’s response would be, but he had to try. Ever since the Andromeda Incident (as Harry had taken to calling it in the privacy of his own head), his husband had flatly refused to set foot outside their wards. Even the lure of french fries couldn’t get him out, and the one time Harry had seriously pushed him, he had gotten positively shirty. He had snapped something nasty about Harry being old enough to cross the street without Mummy to hold his hand, and stomped off to the library. Harry had brought him an offering of fries in apology, which Draco had graciously accepted, but the library door had remained closed for the rest of the afternoon.

Harry’s hope (desperate though it might be) was that the kitten had shaken him up enough to break the impasse and get him out of the house.

“We have everything we need in the storage room,” Draco pointed out.

“Not kitten food.”

“No?”

At that, Harry glanced over to see Draco offering the kitten a morsel of scrambled egg off the tip of his finger.

“Seriously?” he demanded. “How do you know that won’t make her sick?”

“Cats are carnivores,” Draco informed him loftily.

“That’s not meat.”

“It would be, if you’d left it under a chicken, instead of frying it up in a pan.”

The kitten licked daintily at the egg then, satisfied that it was edible, gobbled it down and gnawed on Draco’s finger a bit for good measure. Felix giggled happily at the sight and held out his loaded fork.

“Give her mine!”

“I have plenty. You need to eat your own breakfast.” He gave the kitten another bite from his plate.

“Felix isn’t the only one who needs to eat his own breakfast,” Harry muttered in his ear. “You know what the healer said.”

“Yes, _Mum_ ,” Draco muttered back, stabbing a blob of egg on his fork with undue vehemence.

“So, what are you going to do today?”

“Nothing much.”

“No meetings?”

“No. I’m waiting on a date for the Mulciber hearing.”

Harry felt a twist of nervousness in his guts at that. The Mulciber case was an important one for Draco. It was the first he’d had since reviving his practice that looked like it might go all the way to the Wizengamot, and he was genuinely eager for it to do so. He believed that he could win this one. But to do that, he had to stand up in front of fifty purple-robed judges—pregnant belly and all—and talk them round. And as anxious as Harry was for Draco to pull up his Big Boy pants and get back out in the world, he was not at all anxious for him to do it in front of the entire fucking Wizengamot.

They would have to sit down for a serious talk about glamours and going public.

“I should hear within the week,” Draco added.

“Hmm.”

Maybe he should ask Hermione about using Polyjuice potion on a pregnant person? And that reminded him…

“Ron and Hermione are coming by for supper this evening.”

Draco paused with his fork poised in midair. “Tonight?”

“Yes.” At his accusing look, Harry rolled his eyes. “I forgot, okay? Besides, you’re the one who turned down the last two invitations to supper at theirs.”

“I’m not in the mood for company,” Draco muttered, shoveling eggs into his mouth so he didn’t have to say anything else.

“They’re your best mates. They’re bringing curry and pappadam, your favorite. What could possibly go wrong?”

* * *

What could go wrong, indeed?

Draco asked himself that, as he waited with Harry in the drawing room for their guests. Nothing, he was sure, but that didn’t make him any happier about this evening. Granger and Weasel were his best mates. He enjoyed their company. He valued their opinions. He trusted them to have his back. But sometimes (all right, _most_ of the time) they were exhausting, and Draco honestly didn’t think he had the energy to cope with them right now.

The floo flared green, and Draco curved a protective hand around the little body perched atop his belly. The kitten (no, he was _not_ going to name her something precious and sentimental that made Harry go misty-eyed every time he heard it!) mewed and licked at his hand. Harry grinned at them both in a way that made Draco long to hex him. Then snog him senseless. Then flatten himself against the wall and…

Granger stepped out of the fireplace with her Spawn in tow, cutting off that delectable thought and dragging his attention back to the demands of courtesy. Bob scurried forward to greet his cousins, while Granger pecked Harry on the cheek. Weasel spun into view behind her, lugging two large picnic baskets by their handles.

“Draco, my dear, it’s so good to see…” Granger began, moving to kiss his cheek, then pulling abruptly back when she caught sight of the kitten. “What in Merlin’s name is _that?_ ”

Draco smirked at her and gracefully leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Going senile, Granger? I thought for certain you’d recognize a kitten when you saw one.”

“Yes, but it’s… well…”

“Riding on his belly like a raja on an elephant?” Harry supplied.

“Git,” Draco muttered.

“That’s… a remarkably apt description,” Granger mused, clearly surprised at her old friend’s perspicacity.

“He didn’t feed it to the owl, then,” Weasel observed with a grin.

Harry laughed. “Not yet.”

“I admit, I didn’t think the poor little thing would last this long.”

Before he could respond to this, Draco felt a tug on his robes and heard, “Excuse me, Uncle Draco?”

He looked down to find Rose and Hugo regarding him expectantly. Rose spoke with a politeness she only ever employed with her exotic and awe-inspiring uncle.

“What’s the kitten’s name?”

“She doesn’t have one,” Bob chirped. “Papa gets to pick ’cause she’s his kitten. An’ Daddy doesn’t get a vote ’cause Papa doesn’t like the names he picks. Daddy named me Felix, but Papa doesn’t like that, so he calls me Bob, an’ now Daddy wants to name our baby…”

“That’s enough, Felix,” Harry said severely, even as the entire Weasley clan burst out laughing.

The meal passed pleasantly enough, in spite of the din. The kitten provided a handy distraction. She fascinated the children, amused the adults, and gave Draco something to hide behind when he wanted to avoid Granger’s sharp eyes or Weasel’s too-insightful humor (and no, the irony of a concealing his hugely-pregnant self behind a minuscule creature no bigger than the palm of his hand was not lost on him).

When the curry was gone and the adults who were not up the duff pleasantly pissed, they adjourned to the drawing room for tea in front of the fire. The children trailed after them, ready to settle on the hearthrug, appropriate all the chocolate biscuits, and generally disrupt the conversation of their elders, but Granger forestalled them. From the bowels of her omnipresent beaded bag (the same one she’d toted all over Britain during the war and still carried out of some sort of misplaced sentiment, even when it started losing its beads), she produced a large, flat book with unmoving Muggle drawings plastered across its cover.*

Handing it to Rose, she said, “Why don’t you take the boys up to Felix’s room and read to them, sweetheart?”

“Come along,” Rose said, in a voice as bossy and important as any her mother could produce. “The grown-ups want to talk.”

Felix eyed the shiny red book suspiciously. “Does it have dragons?” He poked at the drawing on the cover. “What’s this green stuff?”

“You’ll see,” Rose assured him. “You’ll like this one, even without dragons.”

“Go on, little man,” Harry urged. “Let Rosie read you the story, then you can tell us about it.”

“I c’n read myself,” Felix said stubbornly.

Rose’s tone was fond and condescending at the same time (another trick of her mother’s) when she said, “ _Little_ words, but this one has _big_ words. _Hard_ ones. Like that.” She was headed out the door, drawing the two boys with her, and pointing to the book’s cover as she went. “You can’t read words like _that._ ”

“I can, too! What’s it say?”

As they drifted out onto the landing, still arguing, the kitten abruptly got to her feet. First, she arched her little back, digging her claws into Draco’s robe for balance. Then she hopped from his stomach to the seat of the sofa beside him. Then—with less confidence because of the height—she dropped to the floor. Draco watched sadly as she scampered out of the room after the retreating children, feeling absurdly abandoned.

“Is it all right to let her run around this house unattended?” Granger asked dubiously. “She won’t dig up some Dark artifact and get herself cursed?”

Harry laughed (callously, Draco thought, because how would he feel if _his_ kitten were attacked by some hideous, old Black Family artifact?). “Not likely. We’ve put away all the dangerous stuff. But that reminds me… What do you know about using Polyjuice on a pregnant person, Hermione?”

Draco’s brows snapped together. He tilted his chin to glare down his nose at his husband. “Why do you want to know that?”

“And what do Dark artifacts have to do with it?” Weasel chimed in.

“I was thinking about your upcoming Wizengamot hearing,” Harry said to Draco. “The Mulciber case.”

“Which is about Dark artifacts,” Draco added, for the benefit of the uninformed in the room. Then he sighed, “You’re completely mental, Potter. I can’t wear a disguise to a hearing.”

“He’s right, Harry,” Granger cut in. “As the barrister for the Defense, he has to appear in person. _Recognizable_ person.”

Harry rolled his eyes at that. “I wasn’t thinking of disguising him as someone else.”

Weasel goggled at him. “You want to Polyjuice Ferret into _himself?_ ”

“His un-pregnant self,” Harry clarified. “Or less-pregnant, anyway, so we can hide it under his robes.”

“How does that even work?”

“It doesn’t,” Granger stated flatly.

“What if we found something he hasn’t worn for months that still had a hair clinging to it?” Harry looked between them all, eyes bright and eager. “Wouldn’t the potion made with that hair transform him into an earlier version of himself?”

“I sincerely doubt it. And even if it did, you can’t Polyjuice away a pregnancy. Think about it, Harry. Where would the baby go? What would happen to it, if Draco’s body changed shape that drastically?”

Harry scowled mulishly at her. “But you make things bigger on the inside than they are on the outside all the time. Only, look at your bag. You can fit everything you own in it, but it’s still small enough to shove in your sock.”

“Because of a specific spell. And before you ask, _no,_ I do _not_ know how to cast it on a human body! Besides, Harry, you can’t risk using powerful spells like that on Draco, when the magic keeping him and his baby alive is so delicately balanced. You’d certainly harm the baby, and probably Draco as well.”

“Which Draco would not appreciate at all, thank you very much,” Draco cut in sourly.

“I’m just looking out for you, love,” Harry said, in his most cajoling tone.

“You’re trying to hide that baby,” Granger snapped, “which gets more difficult and more pointless every day!”

“Oh, no!” Ron cut in loudly. “I am _not_ going to listen to this shite again! Both of you, just give it a rest.” Then, more cheerfully, “How about a glamour, Harry? I’ve seen you do some wicked glamours on him.”

“To hide his face,” Harry pointed out. “I don’t want to hide his face, this time.”

“So use it to hide his stomach.” He looked expectantly between Harry and Draco. “Glamour him skinny.”

“Huh.” Harry raked Draco with narrowed eyes, his brain visibly turning. “I wonder…”

“A glamour doesn’t actually change the shape of his body, right? So it won’t hurt the baby. And you use that kind of magic on him all the time, so you know it won’t mess with the Fertility magic.”

“It might just work. Let’s give it a try.”

“Are you serious?” Draco demanded.

“Of course. Get up, love. Stand over there where I can see you properly.” he pointed to the hearthrug.

“Harry, this is ridiculous,” Draco protested, even as he got to his feet and moved to the spot indicated by his husband’s pointing finger. “I don’t need a disguise. In fact, I don’t _want_ one.”

“Shh. I’m concentrating.”

He was, in fact, concentrating. Draco could tell by the intent look in his eyes and the way his lips thinned. Then he raised his hands.

Draco closed his eyes, suddenly nervous. A wash of magic passed over him.

“Hmm,” Harry grunted. “Why didn’t it work?”

Draco’s eyes snapped open, and he looked down to see the horizon of his enormous tummy still curving away under his robes. He frowned, then tugged open the neck of the robes and the t-shirt beneath them to peer inside. A laugh burst from his lips. Because there, under his clothing, clearly visible from his shoulders to his knees, was a familiar expanse of pale, porcelain flesh—the flat planes of his chest and stomach, the V of his loins, his cock lying against his lean thighs—revealed by his trousers and pants gapping ludicrously away from his torso.

It was the first time in months that Draco had seen his own knees.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

Draco looked up, a grin splitting his face. “I’m skinny, all right, but my clothes didn't get the message.”

Harry crossed to him in a few strides and bent close to peer into his robes. “Bloody hell! I never thought of that!” He looked up to meet Draco’s dancing eyes. “You’ll have to change clothes.”

“Won’t work. Go ahead, touch my stomach.” Harry obediently splayed a hand over the front of his robes, and Draco could feel the pressure of his hand on the invisible flesh beneath. “It’s still there.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry said again, almost reverently. Then he stepped back and eyed his husband’s body thoughtfully. “I wonder if I can glamour the clothes, too.” Shooting a glance at Granger, he added, “That should work, yeah?”

“I don’t know, Harry. I’ve never tried to apply a glamour to clothing,” Granger mused.

“Neither have I. I just put on different clothes to fit my disguise. But I don’t see why I can’t just…”

His gaze turned on Draco again. Narrowed. Focused. Seemed to pierce him with a hundred needles.

“I think I need my wand for this.”

Drawing it from the sheath on his forearm, he pointed it at his husband.

This time, Draco kept his eyes open, so he saw the change happen. One moment, he looked like a blancmange on legs. The next, he was Draco Potter—slim, strong, elegant, with not an ounce of extra weight on his slender frame and robes that fit him to perfection. Harry had even turned his robes peacock blue. His eyes widened.

“Blimey,” Ron breathed. “Look at that.”

“It worked!” Harry laughed in delight and reached for Draco, only to run straight into his pregnant belly.

“Oof! Watch it, Potter!”

“Sorry.” He laughed again and raked his hand through his hair. “I forgot it was there for a second.”

“Well, it is, so please don’t crush it.” Draco headed for the sofa and his seat, only to brought up short by a derisive snort from Ron. Halting, he turned a haughty glare on his friend and demanded, “Do I afford you some sort of amusement, Weasel?”

“You walk like you’re seven months pregnant!”

“That’s because I _am_ seven months pregnant, you insufferable clot.”

“Yeah, but it looks right silly, now.”

“Harry,” Granger mused, as Harry stepped up beside Draco and (much to Draco’s annoyance) began prodding at his invisible stomach with his wand, “I really don’t think this is a good idea. Only consider what could happen, if someone runs into him, not realizing there’s a… well, a _baby_ there.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Harry insisted. “I’ll cast a Shield charm around it, or something.”

“But _why?_ I mean, he’s only going to the Wizengamot. What can happen to him, there?”

“Everyone in the bloody wizarding world can see that he’s pregnant! Then what?!”

“Yes, then what?”

“He’ll be vulnerable!”

Draco turned a wry look on him and said, his voice infinitely dry, “Did it ever occur to you that _you’re_ the one who’s vulnerable?”

“Me?” Harry blinked at him, so clearly oblivious to what he was trying to say that Draco very nearly smacked him in the head to get his brain working. “Why would I be vulnerable?”

“Oh, let’s see… maybe because my parents are desperate. And completely without morals. And absolutely determined to get what they want. And you are the only thing standing in their way?” Again, his impossible husband just blinked at him. “Think about it, Harry. They’ve tried everything they can think of to reach me directly, and they’ve failed. Why?”

“Because you’re too clever for them.”

“No, because you’re protecting me. But, if they remove you, then I’m exposed. It’s the obvious next move.”

Harry shrugged with an infuriating lack of concern. “I can take care of myself.”

“Says the man who spends all day outside our wards, fighting Dark wizards and criminals…”

“That’s my job!” Harry protested.

“…who doesn’t know the meaning of the word caution,” Draco went on, ignoring his interruption, “who fairly _begs_ to be hexed every time he draws his wand!”

Ron gave a crack of laughter. “He’s got you there, mate.”

What felt like a geological age later, Harry finally saw the Granger-Weasley brood into the floo, while Draco wrangled an over-stimulated and utterly unbearable Felix into bed. His task done, he trundled into the master bedroom to find Harry there ahead of him. His husband, for all his daft notions about kittens and glamours, never failed to anticipate his needs, and he had the evening’s potions arrayed on the nightstand.

“Ready to call it a night, love? You look like you could use a bit of magic to ease your aches and pains.”

Draco, refusing to give into his blandishments, dropped the kitten onto the bed, then planted his hands on his hips and favored Harry with an accusatory glare.

“Remember when you asked me what could go wrong, if we let your friends into this house? Well, let me tell you.”

Harry gave him an indulgent smile that only increased his irritation. “Yes?”

“Bob has acquired an entirely new obsession, for which I blame you and Granger, obviously.”

“Enjoyed his first taste of Dr. Seuss, did he?”

“What do you think? He spent the last half hour pestering me to know why _real_ wizards can’t make green goop fall from the sky like rain. And he named my kitten.”

That effectively wiped the smile from Harry’s face. He favored the kitten, who was picking her way carefully over wrinkles in the bedclothes that came up to her chin, with a look of profound unease and said, “Please tell me it’s not Bartholomew. I don’t think I could stand that, not after Barty Crouch…”

Draco forbore to point out that Crouch’s name was Bartemius rather than Bartholomew, not wanting to get sidetracked by Harry’s idiocy. “Oh, no. Not Bartholomew.”

“What is it, then?”

Draco cocked an eyebrow at him and smirked. “Oobleck.”

Harry’s eyes widened to green saucers. “ _What_ did you say?”

“Her name is Oobleck.”

“Draco, you did _not_ allow your son to name that poor kitten Oobleck!”

“How would you have prevented it, pray tell?”

“I’d have told him no!”

Draco’s smirk widened into a real grin. “Good luck with that.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again. Favored Draco with a resentful scowl. Then turned his eyes to the tiny, furry, sweet-faced kitten now kneading at Draco’s pillow with her claws. Draco had to admit that anything less like an Oobleck would be difficult to imagine.

“She’s not green,” Harry protested weakely.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Thank Merlin for that!” Then he started unfastening his robes. “Now, if you’re done fussing about the kitten’s name, why don’t you relieve my aches and pains, as promised. Then we can have a nice shag.”

“In front of Oobleck?”

“Oh, for Fuck’s sake, Potter…”

In the warm, post-coital haze that followed a truly spectacular buggering (doing it in front of Oobleck didn’t seem to interfere with Harry’s technique or blunt his enthusiasm), Draco lay curled in Harry’s arms, drifting toward sleep. Or he would have been drifting toward sleep, if his stubborn git of a husband would shut his bleeding gob. But Harry had something on his mind and was not inclined to wait ’til morning to share it.

“Draco?”

He grunted in reply, hoping Harry would get the hint.

He didn’t.

“I figured something out tonight.”

“How nice for you,” Draco muttered into his pillow.

A hand came up to pet his hair. “I finally figured out what’s had you so spooked since that run-in with your mother.”

Draco abruptly twisted around to fix Harry with a sullen gaze. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Not to me. Apparently, I really am an imbecile because I just assumed that you were afraid for yourself.”

“I am.”

“No.” Harry stroked the backs of his knuckles down Draco’s cheek, then traced a fingertip along his lower lip, making it quiver. “You’re afraid for me.”

Draco blinked rapidly, as unwelcome tears burned his eyes.

“That’s why nothing I do helps,” Harry went on softly. “That’s why you hold onto me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear if you let go.”

“Harry…”

“Shh.” Those gentle fingers resumed stroking his cheek. “You pretend to be a selfish coward who’s only concerned for his own safety, but really, you’re terrified that your mother will take me away from you.”

“She’s dangerous, Harry,” Draco whispered through still, cold lips. “You have no idea.”

“I do. Honestly. I’m not underestimating her, but I’m also not afraid of her.”

“Then you _are_ underestimating her. It’s not a question of whether she’ll get you, it’s a question of when. Because she will get you. I guarantee it.”

“Then you’ll save me.” Harry kissed Draco’s nose, drawing a nearly-silent sob from him. His eyes fluttered closed against his threatened tears, even as Harry’s half-teasing, half-caressing voice went on, “You’ll swoop in on your Nimbus 2001 and snatch me away from my evil mother-in-law—it’s supposed to be a step-mother, but whatever—then we’ll fly off into the sunset together, like Lochinvar and… whoever it was he rescued.”

“What are you on about?”

“Knights. Shining armor. Noble steeds. Damsels in distress. You know…”

A sudden, impossible (slightly soggy) bubble of laughter rose in Draco’s throat.

“You’re a damsel, now?” He opened his eyes and smiled up at his ridiculous husband. Then he wrinkled his nose. Then he snarked, “How is it that the knight is up the duff, instead of the damsel? And how does _this_ ,” he gestured to his swollen belly, “fit inside a suit of armor?”

Harry laughed and bent to kiss him. “Damsels can’t be up the duff. It’s in the job description. And I’ll make sure your armor fits. Draco, love,” he stroked the hair back from his husband’s face and kissed him softly, “we can do anything together, remember? Even stand up to your mother.”

“Hmmph.” That was as close to surrender as he could get.

“Stubborn twat,” Harry said lovingly, recognizing at once the true meaning behind his sour grunt.

Draco smiled up at him in spite of himself.

He wasn’t convinced that the other man truly understood his own peril, but he was wise enough in the ways of Harry Potter to know that he would gain nothing by pushing him further. Harry had to learn things the hard way. Especially when it came to admitting that his husband was (as usual) right.

*** *** ***

It would be a stretch to say that Draco had grown to like the name Oobleck, but after a few days, he was becoming inured to it. Rather like the dripping of a faucet that one eventually ceased to hear. Harry hated it (apparently, he had seen the offending book as a child and been traumatized by images of people breathing green bubbles) but even he couldn’t change Bob’s mind once it fastened onto an idea. Bob had dubbed the kitten Oobleck, and Oobleck she would remain.

She even seemed to respond to the name, skittering through the house on Bob’s heels, as he shrieked and giggled and wailed, “Oobleck, _Oooooobleck!_ ” like some sort of playful ghost. Or maybe it was the string he trailed behind him for her to chase. Whatever the lure that drew her, she would not be separated from him, which suited Draco just fine. It kept them busy and left him free to enjoy his afternoon (if he could block out the racket).

He was curled into one corner of the sofa, reading a novel (for once, he had no work to do and could indulge his more plebeian tastes without Harry around to tease him), when the wards sparked. He glanced up to see the floo flaring green. A moment later, Molly Weasley spun into view.

Draco set down his book and clambered to his feet in time to meet her as she stepped out of the fireplace. He kept a smile plastered to his face, but he suspected that it was as strained as the one Molly wore. She tucked a cookie tin into one elbow, then stretched out her free hand to him him.

“Hello, Draco, my dear.”

He obligingly took her hand and bent down so she could reach his cheek with her lips. “Hello, Molly.”

“You’re looking well.”

“I’m feeling well, thank you.” The niceties done, he fixed her with a wary look and said, “Harry’s still at the Ministry.”

“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t come to see Harry,” she said briskly. “I’ll just go put the kettle on, shall I? Then we can have a nice cuppa and a chat. I’ve brought your favorite ginger biscuits.”

Swept along in her inexorable wake, Draco found himself seated at the kitchen table with a plate of biscuits in front of him and Molly bustling about with the tea things. He knew better than to play the host with her, to take the kettle out of her hands or press her onto a bench with instructions to stay still and let him manage the tea. It would only ruffle her feathers. So he sat and waited and responded to her occasional remarks, knowing that they would not get to the real purpose of her visit until she had finished with her motherly fussing.

“Will Felix be joining us?” she asked.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually. He always does when sweets are on offer. But at the moment, he’s playing with Oobleck.”

She turned puzzled eyes on him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oobleck. The kitten.”

“Ah.” She lifted the whistling kettle from the flame and poured boiling water into the teapot. “Another of Harry’s orphans, I suppose.”

He didn’t bother to disabuse her of this notion, just hummed and smiled.

Finally, she transferred the brewing teapot to the table and sat down on the bench opposite him.

“Have a biscuit, dear.”

He took a biscuit and bit into it—a bit dry with no tea to wash it down, but delicious, as always.

“I wouldn’t have pushed in on you like this, but you haven’t been to the Burrow in more than a week.”

He fixed her with a steady gaze and chewed his biscuit very deliberately, using it as an excuse not to respond.

“You’ve been avoiding us, young man.”

Finally, he swallowed and answered, carefully, “I haven’t been going out.”

“No, and I know why. Andromeda’s been to see me.”

She lifted the teapot and proceeded to pour two cups, letting that statement lie between them like an unexploded curse. When she had prepared Draco’s tea to taste and pushed the cup across to him, she busied herself with her own, and all the time, she refused to meet his eyes. He wondered, as he sipped at his perfect tea, whether she was hoping to shame him into an admission of some sort, but he quickly banished the unworthy thought. Molly was many things, but subtle was not one of them. If she blamed him for something, she would let him know in no uncertain terms.

When they were both supplied with tea and biscuits, and when Molly had nothing left to do with her hands but curl them around her cup, she lifted her kind, shrewd eyes to his face and tsked in disapproval.

“Look at you. So thin I could snap you with my bare hands and pale… much too pale. You need some meat on your bones, my dear, and some fresh air. It’s unhealthy, hiding yourself away in this musty old house just because you’ve had a spat with your aunt.”

“Are you here to scold me?” Draco asked, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

“I’m here to find out what really happened between you and Andromeda.” At his startled look, she raised her brows and said, wryly, “Did you honestly expect me to swallow whatever taradiddle she fed me without choking?”

“Frankly? Yes.”

“Shame on you. I thought you knew me better than that. I certainly know you well enough to be sure that there’s more going on here than Andromeda is saying. That doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed in you because I am.” She leveled an admonitory finger at him. “You know how I feel about this business of breaking up families. And if you were my son, I’d turn you over my knee, pregnant or not…”

Something about the look on his face dried the words in her throat. A moment later, she was on her feet, around the table, pulling his head against her ample middle, stroking his hair and murmuring, “No, no, my dear. Hush. Don’t pay me any mind. I’m just a foolish old woman who doesn’t know when to hold her tongue.”

Draco gulped and turned his face into her soft body. Her tenderness was worse than her scolding, unmanning him completely and pushing him to the brink of tears.

“Arthur warned me to be gentle with you. ‘That boy’s been hurt more than we know,’ he said, ‘and by his own mother, no less. Don’t you add to it, Molly.’ And he was right.” She rocked him soothingly, one hand still petting his hair, while the other clasped his head to her midriff. “He was right, bless him.”

The first tears squeezed from Draco’s eyes to dampen her robes.

Merlin’s bloody balls! Why couldn’t she berate him? Call him an unnatural son and nephew? Give him a chance to master himself?

Instead, she held him a little tighter and murmured, “Hush, now, my sweet boy.”

“You’re disappointed in me,” he murmured soggily, unable to swallow his words or hide his hurt.

“Forget I said that. I didn’t mean it.”

“You did. You never approved of what we did with Bob, and now I’ve gotten Andromeda thrown out of the family…”

“She did that to herself, I’m guessing. And whatever I’ve said about Felix, you just put it out of your mind. I had no right to meddle, but it’s a mother’s prerogative, and sometimes I forget that you and Harry aren’t really my children.”

That did it. He was thoroughly fucked, now.

Wrapping both arms around her waist, Draco mumbled, “We are.”

That earned him a soft chuckle and a kiss to the top of his head that forced still more tears out of him.

“Or we wish we were.” A pause, then he whispered, “I was afraid that you came here to give me an ultimatum.”

“And force Harry to choose between us? Ridiculous child. Look at me, Draco.” When he didn’t move, she caught his head between her hands and lifted it so she could look into his face. Her work-roughened palms gently cradled his flushed, tear-blotched cheeks, and her warm brown eyes gazed fondly down into his wary grey ones. “I may be a foolish old woman, but I’m not that foolish. I know exactly what Harry would do, if I pushed him to it, and neither of us wants to see that happen. Do we?”

“No, ma’am.”

She tutted and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, wiping away fresh tears. “Then stop your fretting, dry your tears, and drink your tea.”

He gave a slightly soggy laugh and released his hold on her, swiping at his face with his sleeve in a way he would never have tolerated from Harry or Bob. As he reached for his tea cup, Molly plumped down on the bench beside him and pulled her own cup over. Then she took a biscuit from the plate and dunked it in her tea.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what really happened with Andromeda?”

Draco hastily swallowed a mouthful of tea to assure her, “I didn’t ask Harry to cut her out of the family, I swear.”

“No, that has Harry Potter written all over it. That boy never could control his temper. Or his need to protect the people he loves.”

“Grange— er, Hermione calls it his Saving People Thing.”

“Quite right. What was he saving you from this time?”

Draco took another hasty swallow of tea and launched into the story.

* * *

Harry dropped his quill and leaned back in his chair, stretching until his vertebrae popped.

“Fuck, I hate paperwork!” he groaned.

“You promised Robards you’d clear your desk,” Ron reminded him, without lifting his head from his own work.

“Yeah, yeah.” He glared at the mess in front of him. Picked up the Incident report from the top of the pile. Scowled at it and tossed it down again. “Draco says my job is too dangerous, but as far as I can tell, the only danger is that I’ll fall asleep at my desk and get buried under a pile of parchment.”

“I’d hit you with a hex or two, just to wake you up, but Ferret would have my bollocks on toast.”

“Too right. And speaking of having your bollocks…”

“Bloody hell,” Ron groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically and slumping back in his chair to grimace at Harry. “You really aren’t going to let me get any work done, are you? Okay, fine. What have I done to upset His Sodding Majesty this time?”

“Let Hermione bring Dr. Seuss into our home.”

His ginger brows skated up his forehead. “Is _that_ all?”

“All? Do you have any idea what you’ve unleashed on the world?”

“It’s a children’s book, mate, not Grindelwald’s manifesto of world domination! How bad can it be?”

“You have no fucking idea…”

Before Harry could explain further, a brisk rap on the office door interrupted him. He and Ron exchanged a look, then he twisted around to call, “Come in!”

The door swung open to reveal the Head Auror standing on the threshold, with two other red-robed figures lurking behind him. Harry felt a flare of excitement as he bounded to his feet. Gawain Robards at his office door could mean only one thing—an escape from paperwork. Harry didn’t honestly care what form that escape took, as long as it happened.

“Sir!” (Harry had never been comfortable calling his superior officer ‘Guv’ like some of the older Aurors, so he opted for the more formal and almost as uncomfortable ‘Sir’).

Robards fixed Harry with a grim, unsmiling gaze (which was really no surprise, since the man never smiled; he had a face designed for projecting authority and precious little else) and said, “I need you in the Interrogation room, Potter.”

“Of course.” Harry automatically checked his wrist sheath for his wand, patted his pockets, and straightened his robes. Then he strode over to the door with Ron close on his heels. “Is it a new case?”

“You could say that.” Robards’ dark, deep-set eyes cut over to Ron. “Not you, Weasley. Just Potter. And I’ll have your wand.”

Harry came to an abrupt halt and stared down at the hand held out to him, palm up, his mouth suddenly dry. “Why?”

“Give me the wand, and we’ll discuss it.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not handing my wand over to anyone until I know why.”

Ron was suddenly at his shoulder, bristling with anger. “What’s this about? You can’t just take an Auror’s wand!”

Robards’ cold eyes flicked from Ron to Harry, then back again. “Actually, I can. And if you don’t stay out of this, Weasley, I’ll have yours as well. Now, Potter, your wand.”

“Why? _Sir?_ ”

“We’ve received a report that you’re performing Dark magic.”

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The book referenced is _Bartholomew and the Oobleck_ , by Dr. Seuss.
> 
> I don’t know if Dr. Seuss is as popular in Britain as he is in the U.S., but I took the liberty of assuming that he is. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the story, here’s a quick summary:
> 
> A king decides that he’s bored with the weather and orders his magicians to conjure something new for him. The ‘something new’ they come up with is oobleck, a thick green glop that falls from the sky in enormous drops. It quickly brings the kingdom to a screeching halt, burying everything and everyone. The king’s page, Bartholomew, has to convince the king that he’s been foolish to tamper with the weather and find a way to save the kingdom. Which he ultimately does, of course.
> 
> I loved this book as a child, but like Harry, I was deeply disturbed by the images of people and animals buried in oobleck. I was convinced that they would all suffocate. The picture that upset me the most was of a trumpeter who tried to blow a fanfare to warn the people, but ended up inhaling oobleck and blowing green bubbles.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Please let me know what you think!


	4. The Malfoy Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one was a beast to write, but going back over your lovely comments helped break the logjam in my head and get it moving again. I have to commit myself and publish it, before I decide to go back and rewrite the whole bloody thing again, so I may have some errors or typos in there that I would normally catch. I apologize in advance if it's rough in places, and I promise to clean it up when I can stand to read it again.
> 
> Enjoy! And, as always, I'd LOVE to hear what you think!

… _you’re performing Dark magic_.

Harry stared at the outstretched hand for another beat. Listened to the words ringing in his ears. Wondered what the fuck he was supposed to do. And abruptly realized that he had only one option.

Sliding his wand from its wrist sheath, he laid it across Robards’ palm.

Robards nodded acceptance, then twitched his head toward the two Aurors hovering at his back. “Let’s go.”

“Harry, what in bleeding hell…” Ron began, but Harry silenced him with a burning glance.

“Tell Draco what’s going on,” he muttered to his gobsmacked partner. “Don’t let him outside the wards. And _don’t_ let him come here. I’ll be in touch as soon as possible.”

“Potter. If you please.”

The snap in Robards’ voice started Harry moving in spite of his reluctance. He brushed past Ron and stepped out the office door to find himself flanked by the two silent Aurors. They were a pair of senior officers who had joined the Force long before Harry and his friends, and so could be depended on not to favor him. Delafield, the older of the two, was exactly the sort of Auror Robards liked and tended to promote—detached, professional, lacking in brilliance but also devoid of malice or bias. The younger, Crewe, was another creature entirely. He was nothing but malice and bias, given to dropping barbed remarks about ponces, shirt-lifters, and heroes with feet of clay in Harry’s presence. Harry, for obvious reasons, cordially despised him.

Neither man spoke to or even looked at him now. They fell into step on either side of him and strode, faces set, through the HQ with Robards in the lead. Harry went with them, not having any choice or wishing to make a fuss in front of his colleagues.

In the Interrogation room (so called because it had been used for grilling suspects in the days before the Detention wing on the ninth level had been built, but now it was more often used as a small meeting room), Robards signaled for Harry to take a seat on the far side of the highly-polished, wooden table. Robards and his two lackeys arranged themselves facing him. All four men waited a beat, as if unsure who should start the proceedings.

Then Robards cleared his throat. “You know how this works, Potter. I’m required, by order of the Minister for Magic, to investigate any report of professional misconduct to the fullest and to make the results of that investigation public. You, as an employee of the Ministry, are obliged to cooperate.” He paused, then added, with a touch of bitterness, “Even the _Chosen_ _One_ doesn’t get a free pass, when it comes to something like this.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, hoping against hope that his expression was duly calm and respectful, that Robards could not see the seething fury inside him.

He’d never been as good as Draco at assuming a mask. In fact, he was pants at it. But he needed one now—he needed to summon his inner Slytherin and do this the Malfoy way—because he absolutely, positively _could_ _not_ fuck this up.

“I will lead the investigation,” Robards went on, “with the assistance of Aurors Delafield and Crewe. For the present, that’s all it is—an investigation into accusations made against one of my officers…”

“What exactly am I accused of doing, sir?” Harry cut in.

Robards frowned at the interruption but answered him anyway. “Using Dark magic to mentally derange and physically harm a chosen victim.”

Harry blinked at that. Took a moment to process it. Then asked, “What victim?”

“Your husband. Draco Potter.”

* * *

Draco was savoring his tea, enjoying a bit of domestic tranquility after the wrenching, emotional scene with Molly. Oobleck was curled in her usual place on his tummy (much to Molly’s amusement). Bob was safely penned in his highchair with pumpkin juice and ginger biscuits to occupy his attention. Molly was puttering about the kitchen, fussing over her boys and chatting in a motherly way that kept Bob surprisingly quiet and Draco lulled into near catatonia. It was lovely.

Then the wards sparked.

Draco, who was just taking a sip of tea, inhaled the hot liquid and began to cough. Before he could recover his breath to tell Molly what had startled him, he heard feet pounding on the basement stairs and a familiar voice calling, “Ferret? Ferret!”

Still spluttering, his eyes streaming, Draco set down his tea cup and twisted aroundon the bench just in time to see Ron Weasley burst into the room, red robes flying, face wild, hair full of soot from the floo.

“What are you trying to do, Weasel, drown me?” he demanded, between paroxysms.

“Er, sorry.” Ron came to a screeching halt and took in the tableau around the table. “Hullo, Mum.”

“Honestly, dear,” Molly said by way of greeting, “where are your manners? Anyone would think you were raised in a barn.”

“Normal, civilized people floo-call first, instead of just blasting through the wards like they own the place!” Draco added sourly.

“Uncle Ron!” Bob called happily, adding his mite to the confusion. “I have bikkies!”

“Good on you, mate,” Ron replied with absent fondness, his mind obviously on his errand. “I’m sorry I blasted through your wards, Ferret, but I need to talk to you.”

Draco’s mouth went suddenly dry. Something was obviously wrong—something that had brought Ron hot-foot to Grimmauld Place in the middle of the afternoon, looking as though he were being chased by Inferi—and that could mean only one thing. Harry was in trouble. Or Draco himself was, and Harry couldn’t be here to protect him, so he’d sent Ron in his place. Either way, it was bad.

“About what?” he demanded, sharply.

“Harry sent me with a message.” Ron’s eyes cut over to Molly for a moment, then back to Draco. “Maybe you don’t want to do this in front of Mum and Felix…”

“Just spit it out!” Draco snapped, in the same moment that Molly protested, “Don’t be silly! We’re all family, here!”

“Okay.” Ron locked his eyes on Draco, drew in a deep breath, and plunged in. “There’s been some trouble at work. Harry’s been… detained. He doesn’t know when he’ll be home, but he wants you to stay in the house, behind the wards, and wait to hear from him. He’ll be in touch as soon as possible.”

In the wake of this outpouring, Draco stared up at Ron, his mind fastening on the one word that didn’t belong with the others. “What do you mean, _detained?_ ”

Ron Weasley—skilled Auror, member of the Golden Trio, Gryffindor lion to the core—flushed a tell-tale bright red and positively cowered away from his question. “Just… you know… detained.”

“As in _locked up?_ ”

“Er…” The flush deepened, and he threw Draco a sheepish glance. “Not yet?”

“ _Bloody fucking hell, Ron!”_ Draco exploded, coming up off the bench much faster than should have been possible and nearly dislodging Oobleck in the process. The kitten mewed her disapproval and dug in her claws to keep her balance, but Draco didn’t even notice the little needles sinking into his flesh. Or Molly’s gasped outrage at his language. It was, not surprisingly, Bob who brought him back to a sense of his surroundings.

“Papa? What’s wrong with Daddy?”

“Hush, dear, it’s nothing,” Molly soothed, moving to comfort the boy and leaving Draco free to confront his friend.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?!”

“Someone filed a report, claiming that Harry is using Dark magic. Robards is questioning him now.”

With another explosive curse, Draco swung a leg over the bench, grateful that he hadn’t bothered with robes that morning and didn’t have to contend with their long skirts in addition to his massive belly. He was struggling to bring the other leg over when Weasel grabbed his arm, halting him.

“Where do you think you’re going, Ferret?”

“To the Ministry.”

“You can’t. Harry said to wait.”

“I don’t care what Harry said.” Draco shook him off and stepped free of the bench, snarling, “I’m going to get my husband back, and there’s not a fucking thing you can do to stop me!”

“No! Wait! We don’t even know if he’ll be arrested yet… Ferret, _wait!_ ”

But Draco did not wait. He was already out the door and headed for the stairs.

* * *

Harry fought to keep his expression neutral and rein in his impatience. He longed to lunge across the table, grab Robards by his immaculate red robes, and shake him ’til his teeth rattled in his head. But he had promised himself that he would not do anything to enrage his superior officer or prolong this ridiculous farce, so he had to control himself at all costs.

 _Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up_ , he repeated to himself, like a mantra, while he watched his fellow Aurors make complete and utter arses of themselves.

Robards was examining his wand for traces of Dark magic. He threw a series of spells at it, most of which Harry recognized and had used himself, but a few of which were new to him and (he suspected) of dubious origins. The spells produced nothing of interest, and the only latent magic Robards could coax from the wand was the remnant of the glamour Harry had cast on Draco’s robes.

His colleagues found this unduly fascinating (Robards and Delafield because any spell cast at Draco was automatically suspect; Crewe because the thought of Harry glamouring his husband’s clothing was hilarious) (“The Savior is whipped,” he remarked, laughing immoderately at his own joke). Luckily, the only visible trace the spell left was the image of the glamoured robes themselves, not of the body inside them or their original state, so it did not betray Draco’s pregnancy. And for once, Harry came up with a glib enough lie to cover himself.

“Apparently, you don’t even use this wand for defense,” Robards groused, when he had exhausted his repertoire of forensic spells.

Harry shrugged with feigned indifference. “I haven’t needed to defend myself, lately.”

“If this weren’t the most famous wand in the wizarding world, I’d suspect that it was a fake, and you’d hidden the real one.”

Irritation bubbled up in Harry, but he fought it down and went for dry amusement. “What do you suppose I’m doing with this mythical _real_ wand? Casting the Imperius Curse on my own husband?”

Robards shot him a darkling look from beneath frowning, overhanging brows. “Are you?”

That startled him into a snort of sardonic laughter. “Please. Are you serious?”

“You think I’m joking?”

“I think you’ve been listening to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, which is always dangerous.”

“Why bring the Malfoys into this?” Robards growled, bristling in a way that told Harry he’d hit the nail on the head (not that there was ever any doubt).

“Because it’s got their grimy fingerprints all over it,” Harry retorted. “Maybe they didn’t make the complaint themselves, but they certainly arranged for it.”

Robards’ face twisted in mingled anger and discomfort. “Our source—whoever it may be—is not the focus of this investigation. You are. You’d do well to remember that.”

_Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t…_

“Fine.” Harry slumped back in his chair and flicked his fingers at the wand in Robards’ hands. “Keep trying, but you aren’t going to find any traces of Dark magic in that wand.”

“Why not, Potter?” Crewe cut in rudely. “Because you used another one to do it? Your _husband’s_ maybe? That’s what’s really going on here, isn’t it? You and Malfoy are in it together, and you’ve been using his wand to keep your own clean!”

Harry just eyed the other Auror sourly and waited for Robards to call him to order.

“Be quiet, Crewe,” Robards growled.

“I say we bring Malfoy in,” Crewe went on, oblivious to his superior’s disapproval, “have a look at _his_ wand, maybe sweat him a little…”

“On what grounds?” Robards demanded, harshly. “Malfoy is a victim, not a suspect. If, in fact, any crime has been committed, which we have yet to determine.”

“Malfoy? A _victim?_ You don’t seriously believe _that_ one, do you, Guv?”

“What I believe is that you’re skating on very thin ice! So I suggest that you shut your fool mouth and let me get on with this interrogation!”

Crewe clamped his lips shut, but his face had turned an angry red, and the glare he fixed on Harry was hot enough to melt Goblin-forged steel.

Robards turned back to Harry and said, with careful restraint, “Do you have access to another wand, Potter?”

“No.” He paused, then amended, “Well, there’s Draco’s, of course. But I don’t use it anymore.”

“Anymore?” Robards prompted.

“Since the war.” Harry couldn’t help smirking just a little, as he added, “Since I used it to duel Voldemort.”

“That… er, that was Malfoy’s wand?”

“Yup.”

“So it… _erm_ … it responds to you well, then, does it?”

“Very well. But it’s rude to use another wizard’s wand, especially when it might affect the wand’s allegiance, so I rarely even touch it. I wouldn’t want it to stop recognizing its true owner.”

“You haven’t used it recently?”

“No.”

“And we could verify this?”

“If Draco lets you examine his wand, but I wouldn’t count on that.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think?” Harry cut a sideways look at Crewe and smirked again.

“I reckon I can persuade him,” Crewe said, cracking his knuckles.

Harry swept him with a withering gaze, then grinned nastily. “Obviously, you don’t know my husband.”

“I know he’s a _Malfoy…_ ”

“Actually, he’s not. But that’s hardly the point.”

“ _And_ he’s a bloody ponce!”

“ _Enough!_ ” Robards’ voice cracked through the room, silencing them both. When he had their undivided attention, he said, “Auror Crewe, you may wait outside.”

“But Guv…!”

“ _Outside._ ”

With another furious glare at Harry and a few muttered remarks too muffled to be understood, Crewe heaved himself to his feet and sloped across the room. No one moved or made a sound until the door had shut (just a little too loudly for courtesy) behind him. Then Robards fixed his darkling gaze on Harry again.

“While I do not condone his obvious bias, or his language, Crewe does have a point. We need to examine both your husband and his wand for traces of Dark magic.”

Harry shrugged, his face carefully schooled into smiling unconcern, while his innards twisted with impotent rage. “That’s between you and Draco.”

Robards looked annoyed. “I can get a warrant, if I have to, but it would look better for you if he agreed to come in voluntarily.”

“Like I said, that’s between you two, but I’d remind you that Draco is a barrister and very well versed in the minutiae of Magical Law. If he doesn’t want to turn himself over for examination, he won’t. And he’ll find some way to block any warrants or writs or other nonsense you come up with to force him.”

“You could talk to him.”

“I could,” Harry’s face hardened, “but I won’t.”

Robards blew the air out of his nose in an irritated sigh. “Why do you refuse to take this seriously?”

“Because it’s bollocks, and you know it!” Harry shot back, his temper fraying and his grip on himself slipping. “The Malfoys have you by the short-and-curlies! Threatening the Ministry with a public scandal, if you don’t bring me up on charges!”

“That’s a dangerous accusation…” Robards began, only to be rolled over by an outraged Harry.

“What was all that about the _Chosen One,_ then?! Afraid you’ll be accused of favoritism or corruption for _not_ tossing the famous Harry Potter in prison?! The only problem is that you’ve got no evidence because I _haven’t done anything wrong,_ and you’re going to look worse than foolish if you go through with this!”

“Is that a threat, Potter?” Robards growled, forcing a harsh laugh out of Harry.

“Like I have to remind you that everything I do is front page news?” he snorted. “I couldn’t protect you from the blow-back if I wanted to! Which I don’t, by the way, because if you drag me and my husband into this shite, you’ll only get what you deserve! A face full of the brown stuff!”

“I think that’s quite enough! You’ve said your fill, now you can cool your heels in lock-up, while I sort this mess out.”

Harry shut his mouth with a snap, suddenly realizing what he’d said to his superior officer. The man who held his job and his freedom in his hands. The man who was now about to lock him in a cell—very far away from Draco.

He had _soooo_ fucked this up!

“Sir…”

“No, Potter, we’re done. Delafield, take him down to Detention. I’ll get started on those warrants.” He shot Harry a quelling gaze from beneath his brows. “Though maybe we’ll all get lucky and the other Mr. Potter will turn out to be the rational one.”

“You can’t lock me up!” Harry cried, even as Delafield rounded the table to take him by the arm. The other Auror hoisted him to his feet, while Harry kept all his attention on Robards. “You don’t understand, sir! You _can’t!_ ”

“I can, and I will.” Then to Delafield, “Get him out of here.”

“I need to let Draco know where I am!” Harry protested.

“He’ll find out, soon enough.”

Harry and Delafield were nearly to the door.

“I want my barrister!”

Robards halted his minion with a glance, then fixed his eyes on Harry. “What’s the name? And _don’t_ say Draco Potter.”

Harry gulped. Mentally scrambled for a moment. Then said the only other name he could think of. “Hermione Granger!”

* * *

Ron caught up to Draco on the stairs. Instead of dragging him back to the kitchen, he helped him up the last flight with a hand under his elbow, but he kept up a constant stream of protests the whole way. Draco didn’t vouchsafe him an answer until they were in the drawing room, squared off in front of the fireplace. Then he let loose the torrent of words penned up in his chest.

“I’m not going to leave him there, Weasel! I _can’t!_ Entirely aside from the fact that this is all my mother’s doing, and I won’t let her have the satisfaction of sending my husband to _fucking Azkaban_ , I _need_ him here! My baby and I won’t make it ’til morning without him! What do you expect me to do?! Beg a Visitors pass from bloody Robards, so I can visit him in prison twice a day for a dose of his magic?!”

“Of course not…”

“I knew she was going to pull something! I _knew it!_ I _warned him!_ But he has to be such a fucking _hero_ all the time! ‘I can take care of myself, Draco,’” he mocked. “‘I’m not afraid of your mother.’ Of course he’s not! The man didn’t have the sense to be afraid of _Voldemort!_ Why would he think twice about the likes of Narcissa Malfoy?! But she outwitted Voldemort, didn’t she? Had the filthy, noseless bastard living in her house and _survived it!_ Give me the fucking Dark Lord over my mother _any day!_ At least you can hear him coming!”

“Ferret, stop. Please.”

“I _will not_ let her win! I _will not_ lose my husband and my baby because she thinks I’m her fucking property!”

“You’re right. You won’t.” Ron caught him by the shoulders, gave him a shake, then pulled him into his arms. It was an awkward embrace, to say the least, with Draco’s enormous belly between them and his body rigid with fury, but Weasel did not let go. “Just calm down and breathe.”

“I’ll kill myself _and_ my baby, before I let that woman get her hands on us! I hate her! _I hate her!_ ”

“Stop talking like that. You don’t mean it. Come on, breathe.”

“Hateful, vindictive, Slytherin _bitch!_ ”

“I know better than to comment on that one. Breathe, Ferret, please. Just one deep breath…”

Draco pulled in a long, shuddering breath and let it out on a furious sob. It was right about then that he realized what Ron was doing—holding him, grounding him, talking him down. Just as Harry would have done.

Fucking Gryffindors.

He took another breath. Exhaled again. Pressed his forehead into the hollow of Ron’s shoulder and let the tension out of his body on a groan.

“Better?” Ron rumbled from just above his head.

Draco gulped and nodded. Then he lifted his head to scowl up at Weasel (just in case the prat thought he was going soft). “I have to go after him.”

“Maybe, but not until we know more.”

“What is there to know? My parents are trying to get him thrown in Azkaban, and I have to stop them.”

“We don’t know if it’s working, yet. We don’t know what’s waiting for you on the other end of that floo. This could all be an elaborate trap for you, and Harry’s just the bait.”

“They wouldn’t dare try to grab me in the Ministry Atrium.”

“No, but they could have accused you of performing illegal magic with your husband. Robards could have you arrested, then where would you be? Trust me, Ferret, you do _not_ want to go charging into the Ministry without thinking it through first. Besides.” He looked pointedly at the tiny black creature clinging ferociously to Draco’s robes. “You’ve got a ruddy kitten on your stomach.”

Draco gave a reluctant laugh and automatically clasped his hands around Oobleck. She began licking his fingers. He felt his fury and determination falter.

Perhaps he could spare a moment to consider his options.

Ron Weasley was neither stupid nor cowardly. As Aurors went, he was second only to Harry in skill and far outstripped Harry in strategic thinking. If Ron said that Draco was safer here, that there was more to learn, that it was unwise to charge ahead without proper intelligence, then it was probably true. On the other hand, Harry was in danger, Draco was to blame, and they both had little time to sort this out.

“What do you suggest?” he finally asked.

“We wait for word from Harry.” Draco screwed his face up in annoyance and stepped pointedly out of Ron’s calming embrace, but before he could protest, Ron went on, “When I left, Robards was questioning him. That’s all.”

“That’s all _for now!_ But what if the next step is a fast boat to Azkaban?!”

Ron shook his head firmly. “Not yet. Not without formal charges and a trial. If they detain him, it’ll be at the Ministry, in one of the holding cells…”

“Which isn’t a whole hell of a lot better, from where I’m standing!”

“My point is that there are procedures to follow. One is that they don’t send Aurors to Azkaban until they’ve been convicted of a crime. Another is that they have to find actual _evidence_ before they can do that.”

Draco turned away, biting his lip, his eyes stinging with tears. “We both know how long those legal procedures can take. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking, and I’m getting closer to the moment when I lose my baby.”

“How long ’til you’re really in trouble?”

“Five hours? Maybe six?” He turned red-rimmed eyes on his friend and said, bitterly, “That’s _if_ the baby cooperates. I’ve been needing more and more magic lately, stronger potions, sometimes calling Harry back in the middle of the day when…”

He broke off, his face contorting in pain, and Ron clasped his shoulder in sympathy.

“I need him here,” Draco finished roughly, even as the burning in his eyes intensified. He had a sudden, terrible fear that he was going to break down completely and humiliate himself in front of Weasel.

“I know you do.” Ron squeezed his shoulder, then let his hand drop. An awkward flush crept up into his cheeks, clashing dreadfully with his ginger hair and freckles, but his earnest gaze remained fixed on Draco when he said, “I’ll do everything I can to help you get him back here in time, Ferret, but if we can’t… if you need me to… to learn the spells…”

Draco’s brows flew up and his mouth dropped open in shock. “What?”

Ron squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said, almost defiantly, “I’ll study Hermione’s scroll and learn the spells and do whatever it takes to get you through this.”

“That’s not… I don’t…” Draco faltered.

“I know I’m not as powerful as Harry, and I’d probably have to cast the spells a lot more often, but you can have all the magic you need.”

“Ron.” He felt his face soften into an expression he did not even want to contemplate and—entirely against his will—his hand lift to rest against the other man’s flaming-hot cheek. “Thank you. But it’s not just about power. It’s about… _connection._ It’s an incredibly intimate thing.”

“I wouldn’t have to… _erm…_ ”

A smile of unholy glee, mixed painfully with gratitude, lifted Draco’s lips and glittered in his tear-bright eyes. “No, but you would have to share yourself with me and my baby in a way you wouldn’t like.”

Impossibly, Ron’s flush deepened. “I don’t care.” He reached up to clasp the hand touching his face, pulling it down and against his chest. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you or your baby, Ferret. And not just for Harry’s sake. You’re an incredibly annoying, overdramatic, poncy git, and most of the time I seriously long to hex your bollocks off, but you’re one of my best mates, and I lo- _uhhhm._ That is, I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not your parents or Robards or anyone. Got it?”

Draco nodded soberly. “Got it. But we aren’t there yet.”

“No, thank Merlin!”

His obvious relief dragged a watery laugh out of Draco. He stepped away from Ron and sank wearily down on the couch. Oobleck stretched up a paw toward his face, mewing softly. He scooped her up to nuzzle at her fur.

“I’ll never forgive you for this, Weasel.”

“Why? What have I done?”

“Forced me to be rational, when what I long to do is blast into the Ministry with my wand blazing. Or apparate to the Manor and…” he drew in a ragged breath, “ _tear_ my parents _limb_ from fucking _limb_ …” His words lost in silent tears, he clenched his eyes shut and cuddled the kitten to his face.

“Yeah.” Ron plopped heavily down on the sofa beside him. “How ’bout some tea, instead?”

*** *** ***

They were all collected in the drawing room—Draco slumped on the sofa with Oobleck curled up on his tummy; Bob tucked into his side, head against his ribs, clutching Mr. Platters, while Molly read to him from one of his dragon books; Ron pacing in a way that made Draco long to hex (or trip) him—when Granger stepped out of the floo. She halted under the weight of four pairs of eyes (five, if you counted the kitten’s), then put out a hand to Ron as he strode over to her.

“Have you seen Harry?” he demanded, catching and squeezing her hand.

“Yes.” Her gaze shifted to Draco. “I need to speak to Draco alone.”

Ron hesitated, mouth open to protest, then seemed to think better of it. Nodding his understanding, he dropped into the nearest chair, just as Draco heaved himself to his feet.

“We can talk in the library.”

“Nonsense,” Molly scolded, “you’ll talk here. We’re all family, and we’re all concerned in this.”

Granger gave her mother-in-law a distinctly a mulish look and said, “This is a legal matter, Molly. I will not violate Harry’s privacy by discussing it with anyone but his husband.”

With that, they left the room, only delaying long enough to soothe Bob by handing him the sleepy kitten to cuddle. Then Draco ushered Granger up several flights of stairs to the library (or he tried to, anyway, but by the time they got to the fourth floor, she was doing most of the ushering, while he was puffing like an asthmatic steam engine). Safely in the library, Granger had to cast the necessary privacy spells (another little indignity to add to the pile), while Draco caught his breath.

The moment she turned to face him, he demanded, “Okay, Granger, tell me what the fuck is going on.”

She told him briefly, without evasions (this was the woman who’d explained magical heats, after all), finishing with, “Harry is adamant that you stay here, where Robards can’t get to you, and let him take care of this.”

“Harry is an idiot,” Draco retorted bluntly.

“I grant you, it doesn’t sound like much of a plan…”

“It’s no kind of plan. What does he think he’s going to do? Dig his way out of a Ministry cell with his fingernails?”

“He says he, _er, miscalculated_.”

Draco rolled his eyes in exasperation. “He fucked up.”

“He lost his temper and said some things that annoyed Robards. (“What a surprise,” Draco muttered.) But he’s convinced that he can smooth it over and get himself released. If not, he’ll go over Robards’ head to the Minister.”

That earned another, still more dramatic eye roll. “He really _is_ an idiot. Leaning on Shacklebolt is the very _last_ thing he should do, if my parents are using his celebrity against him!”

“You’re sure it’s your parents behind this?”

“Who else could it be? Who else knows I’m up the duff and would use it to get rid of my husband?”

“I suppose…”

Draco had spent the last few hours playing out every possible scenario in his head. He knew exactly what threats Harry faced from his unscrupulous parents and exactly what he had to do to rescue him. Granger’s uncertainty only banished any lingering doubts of his own and drove him faster to the inescapable conclusion that he—Draco Potter, Slytherin Extraordinaire, selfish twat and incurable coward, the very least heroic person on the planet—had to do the saving this time.

It was inevitable—laughable, but inevitable.

“Harry is not equipped to deal with that precious pair,” he said firmly. “He’s much too direct and noble. I, on the other hand, am neither. I’m still a Malfoy under the skin, and who better to take on a pair of Malfoys than one of their own kind?”

“What are you going to do?”

Draco shot her a fierce, predatory grin and retorted, “It’s what _we’re_ going to do, Granger. You and I.”

Taking a leather pouch from the top drawer of the desk, he loosened the string at the neck and extracted a single gold Galleon.

“I find myself in need of legal representation. And a functioning wand.” He slapped the coin down on the desk. “Consider yourself hired.”

* * *

Granger had been whinging nonstop since Draco told her his plan. She didn’t like going against Harry’s wishes. She didn’t like taking him outside the wards. She didn’t like using a glamour on him. She didn’t like… basically, she didn’t like anything about the situation. Luckily for Draco, he was a master at shutting out other people’s whinging, since the only complaints that ever truly registered with him were his own. And right now, he was too busy being heroic to complain.

They flooed to the Ministry—Draco wearing a glamour that hid his tremendous belly and (thanks to Harry’s flash of genius) altered the fit of his robes—and passed through the gates with only a nod to the guard on duty. In the lift, Granger kept up her string of protests, but the presence of several other Ministry officials meant that she had to mutter them _sotto voce_ , making it that much easier to ignore her. Finally, they stepped out of the lift on the second level.

“I still say we should have warned him that we’re coming,” she hissed, even as Draco set off for the Head Auror’s office, striving to make his stride as lithe and confident as if he were not seven months pregnant. “It’s proper protocol, and it would set the right tone…”

“Shut it, Ganger,” he snapped. They were entering Auror HQ, and the offices they passed were full of curious ears. “Just stick to the plan and follow my lead.”

Then, before she could offer further argument, they were at Robards’ door. Draco rapped once on it, very smartly, and pushed it open. Three men—all in Auror red; one seated behind the desk, two across from him with their backs to the door—looked up at the interruption. Gawain Robards, the Head Auror, scowled at them, while his two underlings just gawped in surprise.

Clearly, the last thing they expected to see was a Malfoy on their doorstep.

Draco tilted his head at its haughtiest angle. Granger moved up to his side. Together, they faced down the wall of hostile eyes.

“Mr. Robards,” Granger said, at her most clipped and authoritative, “my client would like a word with you.”

“And I would like a word with… your _client_ ,” Robards retorted. “Please, come in.”

They stepped across the threshold but ventured no closer to the desk and its burden of red robes.

Granger flicked a dismissive glance at the two unknown Aurors (she really was rather good at this—almost Slytherin-good) and said, “This is a confidential matter. If you gentlemen will excuse us?”

“These men are handling our investigation into the charges against Auror Potter. Anything you have to say, you can say in front of them.”

“I have no intention of saying anything in front of them, except ‘good day.’” Draco drawled in his best sneering, superior, Malfoy manner.

Pausing for a moment, one brow elegantly arched, he waited for a sign of weakening in his intended audience. When none manifested, he nodded once, turned on his heel (as precisely as he could manage with an invisible tummy in the way) and started out the door.

“Good day, Auror Robards.”

“Mr. Malfoy!” Draco halted but did not turn. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Draco flicked a glance at Granger, prompting her to respond.

“Mr. _Potter_ came here of his own free will,” she said severely, “and is entitled to leave the same way.”

“I can hold him for…” Robards began, only to be silenced by a fierce glare from Granger.

“Not without evidence of wrongdoing or a warrant, neither of which you have. He is not in any way bound to speak to you, and you have no legal right to detain him. If you are not interested in hearing what he has to say, that is your prerogative, but be advised that he will not repeat the offer. Nor will any officer of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement be granted access to his home. Now, if that will be all, gentlemen…”

“Wait!” Robards called, a note of exasperation in his voice. “Yes, I would like to hear what Mr. _Potter_ has to say.” He looked between his Aurors. “Get back to your desks. I’ll let you know if we need to file those papers.”

“But Guv!” the shorter, rounder of the two protested.

“Now,” Robards growled, sending both men scrambling for the door.

Draco stepped aside to let them pass, then waited for Granger to take his arm under the pretense of whispering sound legal advice in his ear. In reality, he needed her support to change directions, navigate the dozen or more steps to Robards’ desk, and get himself into a chair without betraying his true physical condition—not that it would ever occur to the Head Auror that, under his glamour, he was sporting a belly roughly the size of a haystack.

When everyone was seated, and they were all looking at each other with varying degrees of expectation or suspicion, Robards cleared his throat and said, “All right, Mr. Potter, let’s have it. Why did you insist on speaking to me alone?”

Draco shook his head, a cool smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “You go first. Why did you put Harry in a cell, when you have no evidence against him?”

“How do you know that we have no evidence?”

“Because there is none.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“I am.” He cocked his head and lifted a sceptical eyebrow. “I’m the victim here, remember? Who would know better than I do what he has or hasn’t done?”

“Always assuming that he didn’t tamper with your memory. Or compel you to speak in his defense.”

“The Imperius Curse? Is that what you’re imagining?” Draco grinned outright at that. “This _is_ Harry Potter we’re talking about, right?”

“It’s true that we didn’t find traces of any illegal magic in his wand,” Robards conceded.

“Of course you didn’t.” Draco eyed him for a moment, then said, in a conversational tone, “Since you don’t seem inclined to answer my question, I’ll do it myself. You’re keeping Harry locked up because you’re afraid of the repercussions if you don’t. Not legal repercussions, since there is no legal reason to detain him, but political ones. Scandal. Public outcry. Accusations in the press of corruption and favoritism. Have I got that right?”

Robards scowled at him more ferociously than ever, but Draco accepted his hostility without a blink. Having made the choice to come here, to take steps he knew his husband would descry, to indulge his Inner Malfoy, he found that he enjoyed it. Maybe a little too much.

“The truth is, Auror Robards, that you’re afraid of my parents.”

“What do your parents have to do with this?”

“Don’t be coy. We both know they filed the report that forced this investigation, and they’re threatening you with dire consequences if you don’t make a public example of Harry.”

Robards shifted uncomfortably in his chair and spoke to a point somewhere beyond Draco’s left shoulder. “Whatever the source of the report, my duty is plain. I have to take the charges seriously. I have to investigate them fully and determine what, exactly, Potter has been up to.”

“But you don’t have to keep him in a cell while you’re doing it.”

The shadowed, scowling gaze shifted back to his face. “That is the prudent course, given the severity of the charges.”

Draco favored him with a half-smile. “We’ll see.”

“Instead of verbally dueling with me, why don’t you _help_ me?” Robards said impatiently. “Give me the ammunition I need to fight back against _whoever_ is applying pressure on the department?”

“How?”

“Cooperate. Submit your wand for testing. Agree to examination by healers and curse breakers. Let my Aurors search your house. If, as you say, there’s no evidence to be found, let me _prove it._ ”

Draco pretended to give this due consideration, though there was really nothing to consider. He had known from the start precisely where this was headed. It was his sole purpose in coming here and his reason for sending the other Aurors from the room. It was also the one thing Harry most emphatically did not want him to do, but Harry wasn’t here. And anyway, the noble, heroic, idiotic git didn’t know what was good for him.

Finally, he levered himself to his feet and stepped clear of his chair.

“There’s a much faster way to do this.” He turned to smile at Granger, who had been sitting in disapproving silence all this time. “Granger? If you would?”

“Are you sure about this, Draco?” she fretted. “You know Harry won’t like it.”

“Harry doesn’t know what’s good for him.”

“ _I_ don’t like it! What’s to stop Robards from going to the press with your private business?”

“He can’t. This is a confidential meeting about an ongoing investigation.” Draco cut a sly look at Robards from the corners of his eyes. “And our esteemed Head Auror knows just how much trouble he would be in, if any part of it is leaked to the press before the investigation is closed.”

“ _Hmmph!_ ” she snorted. But she was already getting to her feet and drawing her wand.

“Here, now!” Robards protested. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing sinister, I assure you,” Draco replied.

Granger gave another discontented snort and pointed her wand at Draco. “ _Finite Incantatem._ ”

Draco was watching Robards’ face as she did it and knew the instant the glamour had faded. The other man went in an instant from scowling to gobsmacked. His eyes—normally so deep-set that they seemed to disappear into the shadows beneath his brows—nearly popped out of his head. His stern mouth sagged ludicrously open. His face went blank. And Draco had the sudden, irreverent thought that he was about to start drooling.

“Holy mother of Merlin!”

Smirking triumphantly, Draco lifted his hands and executed a creditable pirouette (only wobbling the slightest bit as he came to a stop facing the desk again). “You see now why my parents are so anxious to get Harry out of the way?”

“Is that… are you…?” Robards spluttered.

“Up the duff? Yes, I am. This is what Harry’s been doing with his magic—what I need him to _keep_ doing for another two months, if our baby is going to survive.”

“ _Holy mother of…_ ”

“Focus, please.” Draco snapped his fingers at the still-gaping man, bringing his dazed eyes from the swell of his stomach to his fiercely determined face. “I do not like to capitalize on my Malfoy name, anymore than Harry does on his celebrity, but I am not in position to stand on principle. I was taught politics at Lucius Malfoy’s knee, trained in the subtleties of manipulation and power. And if you think for _one_ _fucking_ _minute_ that I’m too noble or too weak to use that training, you’re fooling yourself!”

“What…” Robards broke off to lick his lips and swallow. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I want my husband released. Today. I’m more than willing to use extortion and political pressure to make it happen—and believe me, the life of Harry Potter’s child outweighs anything my parents have to throw at you—if that’s the only thing you understand. But, if you’d rather sit down and discuss it like rational adults, I’m fine with that, too. Either way, I will not allow you to endanger me or my child because you’re too craven to stand up to my parents.”

He cocked his head. Raised a brow. Offered a fractional smile and purred, “What’s it to be, Mr. Robards?”

Robards stared. And stared. And chewed his cheek. And stared.

Granger held her breath.

Draco maintained his pose of casual command, one devastating eyebrow arched and lids drooping over glittering eyes.

Then Robards gestured toward Draco’s empty chair, breaking the spell that held them petrified. “Have a seat, Mr. Potter. Let’s talk.”

* * *

Harry paced his tiny cell restlessly, ceaselessly, moving from the blank rear wall to the barred one that opened on the main corridor in a few hasty strides. A hundred (mostly inane) plans clashed and jangled in his head. Plans for smoothing Robards’ ruffled feathers, for proving his own innocence, for breaking out of this bloody cage before his unpredictable husband was driven to extreme measures to reach him. He could send a Patronus to Robards, but that would betray that he was capable of performing wandless magic in a cell rigged with magic-dampening spells and probably frighten Robards into sending him someplace more secure. Like Azkaban.

Then they would really be fucked. So… no Patronus. But what else could he do?

He was circling the cramped space like a starving vulture, gnawing on his thumbnail, privately cursing himself for a bloody fool, when he heard the distant grind and clank of a lock turning. He flew to the front of the cell and gripped the bars ’til his knuckles whitened, wishing that his head was smaller or the cell bars set wider so he could see what was going on at the far end of the corridor.

“Hullo?” he called, pressing his cheek to the bars and straining to see more than a few feet past his cell. “Guard?”

Feet rapped against the stone floor, coming closer. “It’s me, Harry!” a familiar voice called.

“Hermione! Did you…” The words died in Harry’s throat, as Hermione stepped into view with two other figures beside her. One was a guard in robes of Auror red with stone-grey piping. The other was… “ _Draco?_ What are you doing here?! Hermione, I told you not to bring him!”

“She didn’t,” Draco said, as he took the hand Harry reached out to him. “I brought myself. And you’re welcome, you git.”

“For what? What are you on about? And why, _why_ do you never listen to me, you tit?!”

“Because you’re usually wrong.” Stepping back from the bars, Draco turned to the guard. “Open it.”

The guard drew his wand, tapped the lock with it, and muttered a spell. Then he swung the door wide, gesturing for his prisoner to come out. Harry didn’t move.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“You’ve been released, Potter,” the guard answered.

“Released? Why?”

“Don’t ask me, I just work here. Right then, stir your stumps, mate. I haven’t got all day.”

“Oh, do come on, Harry,” Hermione urged.

At that, Harry finally got his legs to work and made his way out of the cell. He was greeted by a sour grunt from the guard, a hug from Hermione, and a sardonic grin from Draco.Once free of Hermione’s embrace, he pulled Draco into his arms (deftly turning him side-on so his glamoured belly didn’t interfere) and sent a surreptitious wash of magic through him. He was rewarded by a warm, guttural purr from the other man.

The guard flicked them a veiled glance, then stomped off down the corridor, calling over his shoulder, “I’m locking the door in two minutes!”

Ignoring the implied threat, Harry drew his husband still closer, nuzzled into the hair at his temple and murmured, “What the _fuck_ , Draco? Have you lost your mind? Why would you risk yourself and the baby by coming here?”

“Someone had to save your sorry arse,” Draco informed him smugly.

“I didn’t want you involved! I told Hermione that I could handle it!”

“And you were doing so well!” Draco mocked, tilting his head away from Harry’s lips and laughing up at him with gleaming eyes. “Can we go home now?”

“How did you get me released?”

“We’ll talk about it at home.”

“No, we’ll talk about it _now._ ”

“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione cut in, “do you _want_ to get locked in here by that rude guard? Let’s just go.”

“Fine.” Harry turned for the exit, tucking Draco firmly into his side and looping an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll go home. But I want to hear everything. And I do mean _everything._ ”

*** *** ***

The pad of sock-clad feet on the wooden floor announced Draco’s return. Harry, seated on the edge of the bed, glanced up from the process of removing his own socks to watch his husband come through the door. He looked pleasantly rumpled, weary, endearingly soft around the edges. It was a sight to warm Harry’s heart (among other things).

Straightening up, Harry asked, “How is he?”

“Fine. Just a bit restless, after all the excitement this afternoon. I left him Oobleck to cuddle for awhile.”

Harry’s smile widened. “Does that mean I get to cuddle you, without a kitten pushing in?”

Draco paused with his hand on the wardrobe door to turn and look directly at him. Surprisingly (or maybe not, given the mood in the house tonight) there was no taunting or challenge in his manner, just genuine anxiety. “Are you still angry with me?”

“No.” Harry got to his feet, crossed to where Draco stood, and stepped up close behind him. Looping his arms around him, he bent his head to bring his lips to the smaller man’s ear and murmured, “I’m not happy about what you did, but honestly? You were brilliant.”

He felt Draco’s cheek move as he smiled. Then the body in his arms turned, and the bright blond head came up to fix him with laughing grey eyes. “I’m a Malfoy, Harry. We know how to manipulate a situation to our advantage. But I’m also a Potter, and that means I do it with style.”

Harry chuckled. “You do everything with style.”

He stooped to kiss Draco’s lips, muffling his next words. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

“Hmm?”

“Style. That’s what will get us through this.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You know that my parents aren’t done, right? They won’t stop with pushing Robards to investigate you. When it’s clear he isn’t going to bring charges, they’ll do it themselves, like they did when they tried to take Bob.”

“Seriously? Didn’t they learn their lesson last time?”

“Apparently not, for which we should be grateful.”

“Huh?”

“Think about it. They’re determined to do this legally, which puts them in my world. Which means—with a bit of legal brilliance and a lot of style—I can beat them.”

“I still don’t get what style has to do with this.”

“You will, once we get up in front of the Wizengamot. You just have to trust me, Harry. Let me handle this my way. Let me do the saving, this time.”

“Of course I trust you.”

Stooping to capture his lips, Harry kissed him long and deeply. Draco responded at once, slipping his hands up to clasp Harry’s neck, tilting his head, opening his mouth willingly, and sighing when Harry’s tongue slid into it. When Harry finally pulled back, he remained still, eyes closed and mouth open, for a long moment. Then he gave another sigh, this one of regret, and dropped his head to Harry’s shoulder.

There was something wistful about his posture. Yielding. Even submissive, which caught Harry off guard and filled him with protective warmth.

Lifting a hand to stroke the gleaming hair back from Draco’s face, he murmured, “Have I thanked you yet for saving my sorry arse?”

“No. You were too busy whinging.”

That was more like the Draco he knew. But in spite of that flash of familiar snark, the other man remained pliant and passive in his arms. Waiting for Harry to take the lead.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the hair tickling his chin. “Thank you for bringing me home to my beautiful boys.”

Still, Draco did not move, even to lift his head, so Harry caught it between his hands and tilted it up. Soft, glowing, grey eyes met his. Porcelain-white cheeks flushed a delicate pink beneath his palms. Wide, expressive lips—usually so sneering and cruel—began to tremble. It was all too much to withstand. Harry had to kiss him again or drop dead on the spot with wanting.

He bent his head. Found that gorgeous mouth with his. Drank the flavor of longing and submission from it and thought his heart and his pants would burst together.

He could only guess what had put Draco in this rare mood and, frankly, didn’t want to examine the reasons too closely. Draco was always eager to give himself. Always ready to surrender completely to Harry’s passion. But he was almost never truly submissive, preferring to grant Harry the privilege of claiming him, rather than acknowledge his right.

Tonight, for whatever reason, Draco was offering him a gift. Harry had no intention of squandering it.

Breaking the long kiss, he brushed his lips to one fluttering eyelid, then whispered, “I’m going to show you just how grateful I am.”

“Harry…”

“Shh.” With a burst of wandless magic, he summoned a familiar, blue potion bottle from the nightstand and held it out to Draco. “Drink that.”

Draco obeyed without hesitation, only grimacing slightly at the taste.

Harry eyed him thoughtfully, reading the lines of tension and worry in his face, and came to a decision. “After everything that’s happened today, I think you need a little something more.”

Another wandless spell, and another bottle flew into his hand. This one contained a clear, straw-colored liquid. He popped the cork and held it out to the other man.

Draco frowned at it. “I don’t want to fall asleep yet or addle my wits with pain potions.”

Harry didn’t argue, didn’t explain, just said, firmly, “Drink it.”

Staring intently into Draco’s face, Harry witnessed the exact instant that he made the decision to surrender. To give himself over completely to Harry’s control. Between one breath and the next, he went from wary to accepting. From resistant to obedient. The furrow between his brows smoothed out. His eyes softened. He reached wordlessly for the little bottle, tilted it to his lips, and downed the contents in two long swallows. Then he handed it back to Harry and waited, eyes lifted trustingly to his face.

“That will help you relax,” Harry informed him, as he Vanished the bottle. “You and the baby. Now…” He slipped his hands up under the hem of Draco’s loose shirt. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

He stripped Draco slowly and gently, while the other man stood in passive silence, obedient to his touch and his voice. When he peeled his pants down his thighs, Harry saw that the other man was ragingly hard. He didn’t allow himself to touch the stiff, dripping prick jutting so impudently from beneath the curve of Draco’s belly, just continued his ministrations as if he hadn’t noticed.

In a brief minute or two, they were both naked and, under Harry’s guidance, Draco was kneeling at the foot of the mattress, holding tightly to the ornate bedpost with both hands.

“Up on your knees,” he instructed softly.

Draco complied, rising to his knees and angling his body forward at the hips to keep hold of the carved, wooden post. Harry moved up behind him, knelt between his feet, clasped his hips and drew them back until his bum pressed against Harry’s loins. Both men shuddered at the contact, and Harry’s cock jumped, pulsing wetness between Draco’s smooth cheeks.

“Harry,” Draco whimpered, his head falling forward to hang between his extended arms.

“I’m here, love.” His hands slipped forward to caress the mound of Draco’s belly. “You need some magic, don’t you?”

“I… I need….”

“Shh.” Silently, effortlessly, Harry coated his fingers with lubricant, then stroked them down between their bodies to tease Draco’s opening. “I’ve got you.”

“Please, Harry.”

Knowing that Draco would prefer to feel the burn of penetration, Harry made only the briefest effort to prepare him. Then, with a groan that seemed to echo down to his soul, he buried himself the offered body, bottoming out in one long stroke. Draco uttered a tearing sob, but rather than shying away, he pushed back to meet him and cried out in welcome when he felt Harry’s loins press into his arse. Harry paused, giving them both a moment to savor the shared pleasure and pain that bound them together, before drawing back for another thrust. At the same moment, he sent out a tendril of magic to coil around the baby in Draco’s belly.

Draco cried out again, tossing his head back and screwing his eyes shut against hot tears. A tremor passed through him. He leaned into Harry’s next, more forceful thrust and dug his fingernails into the wooden bedpost to anchor himself. Harry, in the grip of a need too great for gentleness, picked up his pace. He drove ruthlessly into Draco, even as he increased the flow of his magic. Draco rocked forward under the pounding of Harry’s hips until his forehead was pressed to the bedpost, and there he stayed, clinging to the unyielding wood, grunting with every thrust, letting Harry’s cock pound him senseless.

They came in almost the same instant, Draco huddled on his knees with his head braced against the bedpost, Harry draped over his back. It went on for longer than seemed possible. By the time their tremors began to ease, Draco was a gasping, weeping, sticky mess, with come running out of his arse and painting the coverlet between his knees. Harry felt his ribs heave on a sob and gently reached to pry his fingers loose from the bedpost. Then he gathered his shaking husband in his arms and slumped sideways onto the mattress, carrying him down to lie in the protective curve of his own body.

For long, breathless, stunned minutes, they both just lay there, trying to remember how to make their muscles work. Finally, Harry managed to pry one arm loose from its desperate hold on Draco and lever himself up on his elbow. He still lay curled around the other man, clasping him with every possible inch of himself, while Draco curled with equal protectiveness around the baby. Harry brushed the hair back from his husband’s tear-streaked face and saw his lashes twitch.

“Draco?”

“Hmm.”

“Are you all right?”

“Mmm.”

“Talk to me, please.”

“Don’t want to,” Draco mumbled, eyes still stubbornly closed and body limp.

“Did I hurt you, love?”

That finally got a response from Draco. He turned his head and pried up his eyelids just enough to find Harry’s face with his veiled eyes.

“You fucked me with your magic.” The note of awe in his voice went straight to Harry’s cock, making it stiffen in its warm sheath. “The last time you did that, I was delirious and couldn’t fully appreciate it.”

Harry grinned and dropped a kiss on his nose. “So, you’re saying that this time you did?”

Draco didn’t answer, just gazed up at him with an open, trusting, worshipful look in his eyes that told Harry he had not thrown off his submissive mood.

Love rose in a great, molten tide inside him, making his cock harden still more and his eyes burn with tears. “Draco. My beauty,” he whispered, his hands reverent as they stroked the other man’s cheek. “My brave, _brilliant_ husband. I’m so proud of you. I’m so grateful.”

Draco caught his hand and pulled it against his lips, so Harry felt them move when he asked, “Grateful for what?”

“For having a man who loves me so much that he’d risk everything to save me.”

“I did what any Malfoy would,” Draco said quietly, his gaze steady on Harry’s. “I considered all my options, all possible outcomes, and chose the course of action with the best chance for success. That’s all.”

Harry shook his head, a slow smile growing on his face. “You did what any heroic Gryffindor git would do, and I couldn’t be more proud or grateful. But mostly, I’m just glad that you’re safe in our home, in our bed, where I can take proper care of you.”

“Well.” Lurking mischief gleamed in Draco’s eyes, and the dimple appeared at the upturned corner of his mouth. “If you really want to take care of me, you might do something about the fact that I’m very sticky and rather cold.”

Harry chuckled and bent to kiss him, sending out a surreptitious wave of magic to scour their bodies and bedding clean. Then he summoned Draco’s flannel nightshirt and coaxed him into sitting up so he could pull it over his head. As they both snuggled down under the blankets and into a heap of down pillows, Draco turned in Harry’s arms to face him, gazing sleepily up at him through drooping lashes.

“May I have my kitten?”

“Only if you promise not to let her claw my face when I snog you,” Harry replied, with mock severity.

“She was only trying to protect me. She thought you were a threat.”

“She’d better learn the difference between a threat and a kiss, is all I can say. Stay right there.”

Rolling off the far side of the bed, Harry padded around it and out the door. He found the nursery dim and quiet, lit only by the glow of the constellations on the ceiling. Felix was fast asleep with Oobleck curled comfortably at the back of his neck. As Harry bent over the bed, she lifted her head and mewed at him.

“Come along, you little monster. Your mum wants you.”

Scooping her up, he headed back into the master bedroom and moved back around the bed to put the kitten in Draco’s outstretched hands. Draco promptly tucked her under his chin. The kitten obligingly curled herself into a furry donut again and started to purr.

“Happy now?” Harry demanded, as he climbed under the covers again.

Draco regarded him steadily with those soft, sleepy eyes, the smile still lingering on his face. “Very.”

“Good.” Harry kissed him once more and gathered him as close as his obtruding belly would allow, taking care not to disturb Oobleck and get his face scratched for his trouble. “Sleep well, love.”

He extinguished the lamps with a thought, and he closed his eyes.

There was a long beat of peaceful silence, then Draco suddenly said, “Did Weasel tell you that he offered to do the Fertility spells for me?”

That jerked Harry back from the brink of sleep and brought his eyes open with a snap. “What? He did _what?_ ”

“Offered to cast the spells for me, if we couldn’t get you released in time.”

“Thats… _er_ …”

“Daft?” Draco offered, his voice trembling with laughter. “Unbearably sweet and inappropriate? Precisely what we should have expected from a bloody Weasley?”

“All of the above,” Harry said dryly. “What did you say?”

“What could I say? I thanked him. I told him it wasn’t necessary.” He paused, then, “I may have cried a bit.”

“Of course you did, you soppy git. You’re as bad as he is, never admitting how you feel about him.”

“He almost blurted it out today. You should have seen his face when he realized what he was saying. Priceless!”

“You’re terrible. Poor Ron! He was only trying to help.”

“I know, and I was a perfect gentleman about it. Honestly. I didn’t snark at him even once _._ _And_ I gave him tea.”

“That shows real generosity.”

“You’re poking fun, but it does. Only consider how much the man eats! I sacrificed an entire tin of Molly’s lovely ginger biscuits to keep him happy!”

“Go to sleep, you insufferable twat.”

“Mmm.” Draco burrowed down into his pillow. “Good night, Harry.”

“Good night.”

Several minutes of quiet passed, broken only by the soft sounds of their breathing. Then, just as Harry was once more drifting toward sleep, he heard, “Harry?”

“What.”

Fingertips brushed his face, very lightly, and trailed over to rest against his mouth. “You can fuck me with your magic any time.”

Harry smiled under his delicate touch. “That was pretty intense. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” He paused, then murmured, “It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”

“I know. That’s how we made our baby—with love and magic—and that’s why we should…”

“Don’t say it.”

“…call him Amortentius.”

“I told you not to say it!”

“It’s the perfect name, and you know it.” Harry kissed him a final time and chided, “Now shut your gob and go to sleep.”

After that, all he heard was Draco chuckling and whispering to the kitten, “Have at him, Oobleck. Scratch his eyes out.” Then the sound of his husband’s breathing slowing into sleep.

**_To be continued…_ **


	5. It's All About Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks! The obligatory Wizengamot scene! I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> My deepest, most sincere thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter. I've been immersed in the snark and drama of Harry's trial and haven't had the mental wherewithal to reply, but I will soon. I promise. I love you all, and I couldn't write this story without you!
> 
> Okay, here we go...

* * *

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_This is to inform you that a complaint against you has been filed by Lucius and Narcissa Black Malfoy on behalf of their adult son, Draco Malfoy Potter, on the grounds that the aforementioned Draco Potter is not competent to act for himself in this matter. It is the contention of your Accusers that you have, by means of Dark magic, undermined the emotional and mental stability of their son, rendering him unbalanced and thereby coercing him into endangering his own life._

_The formal charges are as follows:_

  * _Use of Dark or otherwise illegal magic_
  * _Use of illegal potions (with related charges re: purchase and/or brewing of such)_
  * _Performance of an unsanctioned magical ritual_
  * _Mental abuse/endangerment of an adult_
  * _Physical abuse/endangerment of an adult_
  * _Coercion of an adult by means of magic, potions and mental abuse_
  * _Spousal abuse_
  * _Physical endangerment of a child (two counts)_
  * _Attempted murder (two counts)_



_A Wizengamot hearing into these charges has been scheduled for 9 a.m. on 15th November in Courtroom Ten at the Ministry of Magic. Your presence is required. An Auror escort will be provided. You may be accompanied by a legal representative, and you may present any witnesses you deem helpful to your case._

_Please be advised that these charges are brought by the Accusers as members of the magical community in good standing, not by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Be further advised that the Wizengamot is required by the International Charter of Wizard Rights to conduct a hearing into such charges, regardless of the findings of the the DMLE in any related investigation._

_You will be notified of the results of the DMLE investigation and any subsequent charges._

_Yours sincerely,  
_ _Percy Weasley_

 _Assistant to the Chief Warlock  
_ _Wizengamot Administrative Offices  
_ _Ministry of Magic_

* * *

Harry felt a very strong sense of _déjà vu_ as he drew on his Auror robes. He could hear Draco clattering about in the bathroom and the distant hum of voices from the drawing room, where Ron and Hermione waited. He could feel a coil of nervousness and excitement in his solar plexus at the thought of what awaited them at the Ministry. What he did not feel—as he had not the last time they’d faced Lucius and Narcissa in a courtroom—was fear.

Not for himself, anyway.

Which was a bit perverse, considering that he was the one in the hot-seat this time, his freedom and his life on the line. But Harry knew that, for all the hair-raising charges they had manufactured against him, the Malfoys could not summon one shred of proof that he’d done anything illegal. Or even anything morally wrong. This was a grandstand move on their part, and if Draco was right (which he usually was), it all hinged on the Wizengamot’s reaction to his pregnancy.

And _that_ was what Harry feared. Not the Wizengamot, per se, but the fact of Draco’s pregnancy being finally and irrevocably exposed.

Wizengamot hearings were open to the public. At least one reporter attended every hearing (just in case something scandalous happened), and when Malfoys were involved, a whole fleet of them were guaranteed to turn up, along with as many gawkers as could be crammed onto the benches. Draco called it Malfoy Spotting and claimed that it was nearly as popular as Quidditch.

Well, today would really give them something to gawk at. Harry Potter accused of attempted murder, with a very pregnant Draco Malfoy as his key witness? It was a _Daily_ _Prophet_ wet dream waiting to happen.

Harry checked his watch and saw that they had plenty of time before his Auror escort was due to arrive. Time to try, once more, to talk his husband out of this madness. He could defend himself. The Malfoys had no evidence. All Draco had to do was prove that he wasn’t mentally incompetent (which the entire Wizengamot would recognize at a glance) and the rest would be easy… if only his stubborn git of a husband would agree to do it his way.

“Draco? Are you about ready?” he called.

“Hmm,” was Draco’s noncommittal reply. Then, in obvious irritation, “Fuck. What a mess!”

“What’s wrong?”

Harry stepped into the bathroom doorway and saw Draco scowling at himself in the mirror. He was dressed in a high-necked silk shirt that fell loose over his tremendous belly, with narrow ruffles of lace at his throat and wrists. A pair of drainpipe trousers clung provocatively to his long, slim legs and just brushed the tops of his feet in their pointy-toed Mod boots (no leather trousers this time, since Harry refused to risk damaging them by changing their shape). His face was artfully painted—black kohl lining his eyes, deep purple eyeshadow and lipstick, a touch of iridescent powder on his cheekbones—and strikingly, preternaturally beautiful in the candlelight. Only his hair was not up to his usual impeccable standards, falling in a sloppy plait over his shoulder with stray bits coming loose and poking out at odd angles.

He flicked at the plait with his long fingers and grumbled, “I can’t do this properly without magic.”

Harry moved up behind him and stroked a hand over his hair. “What are you going for?”

“I don’t know. That’s part of the problem. Do I want ‘soft and maternal’? Or do I wan’t ‘warrior- barrister’?”

“Warrior-barrister, definitely. This isn’t about proving that you’re a good parent. It’s about proving that you’re still _yourself._ So I say, go for broke.”

“Right.” Draco gave a decisive nod, his mouth hard and uncompromising beneath its luscious lipstick. “Give me some streaks. Purple and blue, I think. Then a style to make my mother swoon.”

With a fond chuckle, Harry once more stroked his hands over Draco’s hair, this time letting his magic flow out of them. Power danced and shimmered in the air. The platinum hair—now streaked with jewel-toned color—began to twist and coil into an elaborate coronet on the crown of Draco’s head. After a minute or two, Harry cut off the flow of magic and dropped his hands. Both men stared critically at the vision in the mirror, Draco turning his head this way and that to study the result from every angle.

He looked…

“Perfect,” Draco declared.

Harry would have said ‘fierce’. Or ‘magnificent’. Or ‘bloody fucking gorgeous’. But ‘perfect’ would do well enough.

Whatever you chose to call it, he looked so good that Harry promptly forgot all about talking him out of his plan and focused entirely on getting into his pants. Because anything that looked _that_ delectable simply had to be savored.

With another nod, this one of satisfaction, Draco turned away from the mirror and demanded, “Help me with my robes.”

“I have a better idea.” Harry snagged him as he attempted to walk by. “Instead of putting on more clothes, let’s get rid of these and have fun with this nice bit of wall.”

As he spoke, he spun Draco around to lean against the bedroom wall and crowded in close to his side, grinding his erection (which was getting bigger and more insistent by the second) into his hip. Draco gave him a sultry look from beneath his blackened lashes, and his painted lips quirked into a smile that fairly begged to be snogged off his face. The memory of how it felt when that lipstick melted and smeared against his mouth made Harry groan with longing. But when he leaned in for a kiss, Draco stopped him with a hand in the middle of his chest.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned. “It took me an hour to get my makeup right without magic.”

“Nothing wrong with _my_ magic,” Harry murmured provocatively, once more leaning in.

Draco jerked his head away. “Which does me no good at all, since you don’t know the first thing about applying makeup. Harry!” He used both hands to fend off his importunate husband, pushing at Harry’s shoulders until he lurched back a step. “I will _not_ be late for this hearing because you can’t keep it in your pants!”

Harry shifted his attention to Draco’s jaw and ear, nipping playfully at them and mumbling into his smooth skin, “It’s just cruel to send a man off to face his doom with a stiffie under his robes.”

“You’ve always got a stiffie under your robes.”

“Only when I’m around you, my beauty.”

“Harry, seriously. We can’t.”

“Why not? We’ve got almost an hour before my escort gets here.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth, than they both heard footsteps clunking on the stairs and Hermione’s voice calling, “Harry? Draco? Molly’s here to collect Felix!”

Harry groaned again—this time in despair—and propped his head against Draco’s, eyes shut as he fought down his surging lust.

“We’ll be right down!” Draco bellowed. Then he forcibly detached himself from Harry and stepped away from the wall.

“Argh!” Harry protested.

“Are you going to help me with my robes?”

“ _Arrghh!!_ ”

“Stop being such a child, Harry. My arse will still be here after the hearing, as will the wall. You can have both as soon as we’re through the floo. Until then, _behave yourself._ ”

As he said this, he smacked away the wandering hand that was cupping his bum in a distinctly suggestive way.

“I don’t know why your parents are going to all this trouble,” Harry grumbled, as he sloped over to the wardrobe and the elegant, midnight-blue robes hanging from the door. “I’m going to die of sexual frustration long before I get to Azkaban.”

“Poor baby,” Draco cooed, patting his cheek in mock sympathy. “I promise to let you ravish me repeatedly, _after_ we publicly humiliate my parents.”

Harry held out the robes for Draco to slide his arms into the sleeves. As he pulled them up over the other man’s shoulders, he let his face fall into troubled lines and said, quietly, “I wish you wouldn’t do this, Draco.”

“So you’ve said.” Draco leaned back, into the clasp of his hands for a moment, then said, firmly, “You’ll just have to trust me, Harry.”

“I do, but that doesn’t make me any happier about it.”

Together, they made short work of fastening all the clasps and buttons, adjusting the lace at Draco’s wrists and throat, folding back his wide outer sleeves to show the shimmering ice-blue silk lining, and straightening the pleats over his belly to make the robes fall just so. Draco remained quiet until they were done and his clothing was as immaculate as his hair and makeup. Then he cocked his head and smiled provocatively at Harry.

“What do you think? Good?”

Harry raked him with a measuring gaze, taking in the outrageous perfection that was his warrior-barrister husband.

“Only one thing missing.”

Holding out his hand, he Summoned the silver filigree flying-dragon comb that Hermione had conjured for their last confrontation with Lucius and Narcissa. Draco watched, smiling slightly, as it flew into Harry’s hand, then he inclined his head so Harry could place it carefully in his gleaming coronet of hair. When he straightened up, Harry broke out in a beaming smile.

“That’s my beauty.”

Draco promptly stepped into his arms and tilted his face up to let Harry brush his lips against his cheek. “Don’t worry about me, Harry,” he murmured into the other man’s ear. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure you do, but still…”

“But nothing.” Draco leaned back to fix him with a stern gaze that left no room for doubt or dismay. “My parents think they have the advantage, with their money and influence and long history of wielding political power, but they’ve forgotten who they’re dealing with.”

“They couldn’t forget what they never knew,” Harry replied, his tone rough and aching with love. “They never knew you, Draco. Never appreciated you. Never had a clue who you really are.” He cupped Draco’s head in his hand, careful not to disarrange his hair, and added in a throaty whisper, “And they will never see you coming, my Lochinvar.”

Draco wrinkled his nose at that, then sighed, “I seriously wish I could snog you ’til your socks catch fire.”

“Later.” Harry feathered another kiss to his cheekbone. “After you save your damsel in distress and crush your foes.”

“That’s more like the Gryffindor I know. All sloppy sentiment and bad analogies.” Draco reached up to swipe at Harry’s lips with his thumb. “You’ve got a bit of sparkly powder, there.”

“Draco…”

“Don’t say anything that’s going to ruin my makeup.”

“I won’t. Just… I trust you with my life. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“And I think you’re brilliant. More than a match for your parents.”

“I am.”

“And when I push back on this plan of yours, it isn’t because I don’t believe it’ll work. It’s because I hate the thought of you and our baby on the front page of every newspaper in the wizarding world, for everyone to gawp and sneer at.”

“I know all this, Harry.”

“It’ll make you a target for every loony with a wand. Or a quill. Or a… a _rock!_ You have no idea!”

“No idea? Seriously? I’ve been a target for every loony with a wand or a rock since the day I first appeared on your arm!”

“This is different.”

“I doubt it. But it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m not having this argument with you again.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start another argument.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“No, really. What I want to say is that I’m done fighting you on this. You know how I feel, why I don’t like the idea of going public, but you think it’s worth the risk. So, okay, it’s worth the risk. It’s your decision, and I support it, and…” He broke off, swallowed, and grinned. “There. I said it.”

“Bravely done, my lion.” Draco gave him a heart-stopping smile and added, in a half-taunting, half-playful drawl, “Now that you’ve got that off your chest, can I trouble you for a glamour?”

*** *** ***

They stood in front of the ominous wooden door in the cold, dank dungeon passage—Hermione crisp and professional in her Ministry robes, a fat scroll tucked under her arm; Draco still wearing the glamour Harry had cast to hide his pregnant belly and dim his blazing presence—waiting for the last minute to tick by. They had to time their entrance precisely for maximum effect. All the players, they knew, were already inside and no doubt beginning to wonder what was keeping Harry’s barrister.

Thirty seconds to go.

Right about now, Lucius and Narcissa were indulging the hope that their son was too ashamed or too frightened to show his face (because they really didn’t fucking _know_ him!). They were shooting gloating looks at Harry—all alone on his side of the dungeon floor—and smothering their smiles. Perhaps Bloodworth, their hawk-faced barrister, was rearranging his arguments to make the most of this windfall.

Twenty seconds.

“Do it, Granger,” Draco murmured.

She gave him a doubtful look. “Are you sure? There’s still time to rethink this.”

“Do it,” he repeated, his tone adamant.

She lifted her wand and whispered, “ _Finite Incantatum._ ” As the glamour vanished, revealing Draco in all his gorgeous plumage, her eyes widened. “Oh, my. You look…”

“Thank you,” he replied, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “All right, time to blow the roof off this place.”

She turned her wand on the huge, heavy, iron-bound door. “You’ll certainly do that.” Then she flicked a spell at the barrier and it swung ponderously inward.

Draco went through the door first with Granger only a pace behind him. He sailed into the dungeon—head up, back ramrod straight, tremendous belly leading the way—like a ship coming into harbor with all flags flying. For a brief moment, no one noticed his entrance, and he had a chance to take in the scene before him.

Six chairs, three to each side of the chain-draped prisoner’s chair at the center of the floor. His parents and their barrister seated in the far group of chairs, muttering to each other. Harry standing casually by the high barrier that divided the well of the dungeon floor from the raised benches, chatting with the Minister for Magic and keeping a surreptitious eye on the door where he knew Draco would appear. Madam Marchbanks in the center of the lowest bench, flanked by Percy Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Aurelia Pauncefoot, Gawain Robards, Healer Bulstrode (looking even more like a depressed basset hound than ever), Ron Weasley and (he was sorry to see) Andromeda Tonks. A few Aurors and a handful of reporters, eagerly clutching their quills, filling the rest of the first bench. Behind and to either side of them, a veritable wall of bodies in every color and cut of robes rising to the distant ceiling, with an unbroken mass of Wizengamot purple gathered in the middle.

Exactly what he had expected to see (with the one, lamentable exception of Andromeda’s presence).

Then Harry caught sight of him and stepped away from the barrier, a smile blossoming across his face. Every eye in the room followed the Savior’s move and found the flame that drew him. Every voice died in an instant, throttled by shock and disbelief.

“Draco. Hermione,” Harry said, his voice carrying easily in the unnatural silence. “You’re just in time.”

To punctuate his words, a deep chime sounded to announce the hour. And the room erupted.

Draco ignored the veritable wall of sound that crashed down around his ears. He swept up to Harry, took his outstretched hand, and leaned in to plant a purple kiss on his cheek. Hermione said something that was lost in the din, then accepted Harry’s one-armed hug (he wouldn’t let go of Draco’s hand to do it properly) and wiped the traces of lipstick from his face. And still the cacophony went on.

Draco expected Madam Marchbanks to call the court to order. The hearing was supposed to start on the hour, and she was a stickler for such details. But she seemed as gobsmacked as the rest by Draco’s appearance and unable to collect herself enough for speech. She was still sitting in her raised chair, gaping stupidly at Draco, when he, Harry and Hermione took their seats to the right of the prisoner’s chair. In the end, it was Bloodworth who got things moving.

At a muttered instruction from Lucius, the barrister got to his feet and approached Marchbanks’ seat.

“Madam, I must protest!” he shouted. “This is a criminal hearing, not a raree show! This is entirely inappropriate!”

Pulling herself together, Marchbanks waved Bloodworth away and lifted her wand to cast a _Sonorus_. “ _I will have silence!_ ” she roared. “ _SILENCE!!_ ”

It took another full minute and several rafter-rattling bellows from the Chief Warlock to finally quell the riot. Throughout, Harry’s party remained sedately seated, watching it all with amused smiles on their faces, while Bloodworth fumed and ranted at an unimpressed Marchbanks, and the key players seated on the lowest bench whispered (or more accurately, shouted) amongst themselves. At last, with threats of clearing the courtroom and arresting those who continued to disturb the proceedings, Marchbanks managed to achieve order.

When nothing disturbed the peace but the rustling of robes and the clearing of throats, she canceled her _Sonorus_ and turned her attention to the dungeon floor.

“Sit down, Mr. Bloodworth.”

“Madam, I must insist that Draco Malfoy be removed from this courtr—”

“ _Sit down_ , Mr. Bloodworth! Don’t make me repeat myself!”

“I insist that my formal complaint be entered in the court record!”

“Later.” Turning her gimlet glare on Draco, she said, in a bemused tone, “Mr. Potter, are you…” She seemed, for a moment, at a loss for words. Then she regrouped and finished, “Quite well?”

Draco smiled cheekily at her. “In the pink, Ma’am.”

A susurration of sound met this remark, quickly hushed.

“I do not wish to be personal, Mr. Potter. This is, as Mr. Bloodworth has pointed out, a criminal hearing and not the place for irrelevancies, but I feel I must ask. Are you… _with child?_ ”

Draco splayed a hand over his swollen belly and gave it a proprietary stroke, while his smile widened into a full-blown grin. “Excessively so.”

“I… I am…”

“Happy for us?” He ostentatiously squeezed Harry’s hand. “Why, thank you, Madam Marchbanks.”

Her thin lips twitched, but she managed to control her smile. Waiting for a fresh ripple of noise to die down, she said, in her usual uncompromising way but with a current of amusement (maybe even affection?) under it, “I am delighted for you both. Now, if we can get back to the matter at hand… Am I to assume that you are acting as your husband’s barrister? Is that the import of Mr. Bloodworth’s complaint? If so, I must agree with him that this is entirely inappropriate.”

“No, Ma’am. I’m here as a witness for the Defense. And as evidence,” he added with a smirk and another stroke of his belly.

Granger rose to her feet and addressed the Chief Warlock. “I am acting as Harry Potter’s barrister, Ma’am. Draco Potter is here at my request.”

Bloodworth came to his feet again in a bound. “I object, Madam! Draco Malfoy cannot speak on behalf of the Accused!”

“You’re not going to tell me that he has no part of these proceedings, surely,” Marchbanks retorted. “Not only is he Mr. Potter’s spouse, but he is also the victim of his alleged crimes.”

“He cannot speak because he is not competent to do so!”

That sparked yet another outcry from the benches, a confused babble of laughter, taunts, cheers and outrage. Madam Marchbanks let it continue for a long minute, while she looked from the red-face, belligerent Bloodworth to the smiling and composed Draco with a decided smirk on her face. Then, finally, she lifted her hand for quiet.

“Are you trying to tell me that this man,” here she gestured toward Draco, “is not mentally competent?”

“If he were, he would not have allowed another man to _impregnate_ him!”

Draco sighed and rolled his eyes, as a fresh torrent of sound broke over his unbowed head. Leaning close to Harry, he murmured in his ear, “Here we go.”

“ _ENOUGH!!_ ” Marchbanks roared, shaking the walls with her magically-amplified voice. “ _I WILL TOLERATE NO MORE OF THIS!!_ ” When the tumult began to subside, she went on at a slightly less shattering volume, “ _Any further disturbance, from_ _ANYONE,_ ” her eyes skated to where Bloodworth and the Malfoys sat, “ _and I will clear this courtroom!_ ”

She paused to take a breath. A few stray shouts and catcalls filled the gap, quickly hushed by neighbors on the benches who didn’t want to be evicted.

“Let me be plain!” Marchbanks went on, her voice filling the deep well of the dungeon with ease. “I am required by law to conduct this hearing, but I am not required to do so in an atmosphere of chaos, hostility or prurience! If you cannot control yourselves, you will be removed! And I will not hesitate to arrest anyone who flouts my authority or ignores my warnings! This applies equally to audience members, the press, participants in the proceedings and members of the Wizengamot! _Do you understand?!_ ”

Dead silence answered her.

“Good.” She paused, letting it all sink in, then once more canceled her _Sonorus_ and spoke directly to the six people seated below her. “My warnings go doubly for all of you. I expect this hearing to proceed in an orderly fashion, with a minimum of dramatics. If it does not, I will know whom to hold responsible. Now, let’s get started.”

Bloodworth cleared his throat and raised a hand for attention. “I beg your pardon, Madam Marchbanks.”

Draco thought he detected just a hint of an eye-roll when she replied, “Yes, Mr. Bloodworth?”

“About my objection…”

“It has been duly noted and rejected.”

“But Draco Malfoy’s presence…”

“Is completely appropriate. This hearing into the criminal charges made against Mr. Harry Potter is now convened. Mr. Weasley, if you would read the charge sheet?”

Percy Weasley got to his feet and, in his usual prissy way, began the formalities. Draco didn’t bother to listen. He knew the routine all too well and didn’t need to hear the charges against Harry. Instead, he passed the time pondering the success of his opening gambit.

On the whole, he was quite pleased. His entrance had been a calculated move (a stunt Bloodworth would call it, which was a fair assessment) intended to catch the Wizengamot off guard and set the tone of the proceedings. He guessed that his parents had hoped to use his pregnancy against him, either by painting him as ashamed when he tried to hide it or by swaying the audience to horror and disgust when he revealed it. If Draco had allowed them to time the disclosure or had shown a hint of uncertainty in the face of the mob, they would have succeeded. Then they would have owned the crowd, set the mood, dictated the response. But Draco was not one to be manipulated by others, and he had no intention of letting anyone but himself dictate the response to _his_ child.

His dramatic revelation had shocked and horrified, certainly. But _he_ had timed it. _He_ had orchestrated it. _He_ had carried it off with a panache that his parents would never appreciate. And in the end, he had turned it to his advantage, winning over Marchbanks, at least, and possibly the rest of the Wizengamot with his ineffable style. Because, as he’d told Harry, it was all about style.

Now, he just had to pick at the right threads and watch his parents unravel.

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley,” Marchbanks said, bringing Draco’s attention back to the present. She fixed her stern gaze on his parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, please stand and address the court.”

Lucius and Narcissa rose—Narcissa motioning for Bloodworth to keep his seat—and struck commanding poses, looking down their superior noses at the Chief Warlock.

Marchbanks (bless her flinty heart) was not ruffled by their obvious disdain.

“I understand that you brought these charges against Harry Potter on behalf of your son, Draco Potter. Is that correct?”

Lucius inclined his head majestically. “That is correct.”

“But your son is appearing as a witness for the Defense.”

“Our _son_ ,” he put a delicate, distasteful emphasis on the word, “is not himself. He is completely under the sway of a more powerful wizard…”

“You mean, his husband,” Marchbanks put in, “Harry Potter.”

“Precisely. Harry Potter. Widely believed to be the most powerful wizard living and more than a match for my poor son.”

Madam Pauncefoot, the Head of the DMLE, spoke up. “So, you’re claiming that Harry Potter has somehow coerced his own husband into appearing to support him? Based on what evidence?”

“His presence here is evidence enough,” Lucius said smoothly.

“That’s an interesting piece of logic.”

“Draco has been repeatedly abused and victimized by Harry Potter. He has been used in the most revolting and unnatural of ways. If he were in his right mind, he would have left his sham of a marriage and returned to the bosom of his family, where he knew he would be safe and valued. That he has not, that he has allowed himself to be manipulated into defending the man responsible for his debasement, is incontrovertible proof that he is _not_ in his right mind. That, in fact, Harry Potter has turned his wits.”

A beat of silence met this pronouncement, with a few squeaks and rustles from above as listeners smothered their reactions. Every witch and wizard in the dungeon, up to the very highest benches, stared at Draco in anticipation of some lunatic demonstration. All they got was an ironic smile.

Finally, Madam Pauncefoot gave a snort and said, “Yes, he’s positively gibbering.”

Draco twinkled appreciatively at her.

Marchbanks cleared her throat (probably to stop herself from laughing) and said in an aside to Shacklebolt, “Do you have any questions on this point, Minister?”

“Oh, no,” Shacklebolt waved a dismissive hand, “I’ve heard quite enough.”

“Very well, then. We’ll move on to the specific charges… _No,_ Mr. Bloodworth, I do _not_ want to hear from you!” she snapped, aborting another attempt by the barrister to cut in and forcing him to subside into his chair. “You have presented a very long and daunting list of charges, here. Rather than go through them one by one, I think the best approach is for you to tell us, as succinctly as possible, what you claim Mr. Potter has done.”

“If I may?” Narcissa asked dulcetly.

She stepped forward, drawing all eyes, and motioned Lucius back with a subtle twitch of her hand. He obediently resumed his seat next to Bloodworth. Narcissa now held the floor, unchallenged.

“Proceed, Mrs. Malfoy.”

She inclined her head regally, then began speaking in her most honeyed voice.

“As you can all see quite clearly, my son, Draco, is pregnant. This ought to be impossible. Men—Magical and Muggle—are incapable of bearing children. Yet there he is, more than seven months pregnant with the child of his husband, Harry Potter. I do not know by what means Mr. Potter persuaded or compelled my son to undertake such a thing, but I do know that the magic he used to accomplish it is Dark, powerful and extremely dangerous. It has put both Draco and his unborn child in peril of their lives. It has virtually enslaved them to Harry Potter by, as Draco believes, tying them to his magic for their survival. And it has imperiled my three-year-old grandson, Felix, by forcing him to live in a household dominated by an abusive parent who has no compunction about destroying those in his power.”

“How do you know all this?” Pauncefoot demanded.

“I have it from Draco’s own mouth.”

That caused another brief stir that died on its own, before Marchbanks could intervene.

“Your son told you that his husband was putting his life at risk?”

“He did.” She turned to gaze wistfully at Draco, radiating Motherly Love in its purest form. “When I learned of Draco’s pregnancy, all I wanted was to see my son. To fold him in my arms. To offer him my advice and support and protection—yes, _protection_ , because I have always known what his husband is!—but I could not reach him. Harry Potter denied us all contact with him, as he had for years. So, in desperation, I sought out the only member of his _real_ family that still had access to Draco. My sister, Andromeda. She was kind enough to arrange a meeting for us at her home, where Potter could not interfere.”

Harry’s hand closed abruptly on Draco’s arm, stilling his instinctive snort of disgust and holding him in his chair. Draco drew in a steadying breath, pasted an amused (and only slightly stiff) smile on his face, and listened in teeth-clenched silence as his mother went on spinning her tale.

“When I saw Draco, I was… shocked. He looked thin, weak, and visibly ill. He could barely get himself out of his chair and could summon no magic at all. He began our conversation in an agitated state that quickly escalated to irrational, until he was raving. I tried to calm him to no effect. I suggested that he and my grandson, who was upstairs listening to this unhinged outburst by his father, should come to Malfoy Manor with me, where they would be protected by our wards and safe from any… outside influence. That was when he informed me that he needed magic and potions provided by Harry Potter to survive. Without them, his baby would die and probably kill him, as well.”

At that point, she broke off to blink back threatened tears and press a shaking hand to her cheek. It was a masterful performance, in its way. Draco couldn’t help but admire it, even as it possessed him of the desire to hex the perfectly-coifed hair off her head.

“I was devastated,” she went on, her voice shaking as artfully as her hands. “I wanted nothing more than to protect him, but I realized that this was impossible, given the situation. His pregnancy was too far advanced and his health too precarious to risk separating him from Potter, and I didn’t know how much of what he said about needing Potter’s magic was true. So I had no choice but to let him go.

“After he and Felix had left, I talked at some length with my sister about Draco’s pregnancy—what she’d heard and seen—and became convinced that he was under some dreadful compulsion. That he would never have put himself in this position if he were in his right mind. That only one person had the opportunity, the motive, and the raw power to subvert his will in such a way. And I knew that I had to save him before it was too late.”

Her words echoed into silence.

Madam Marchbanks stirred, unclasping the hands resting on her desk and glancing down at the parchment beneath them. “It was at this point that you filed a report with the DMLE, accusing Auror Potter of using Dark magic on his husband, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“When did you file that report?”

“On the eighth of November.”

“And when did you submit your extensive list of charges to the Wizengamot?”

“On the eleventh of November.”

“Is there a reason why you chose to take direct action against your son-in-law so quickly? Did you hear from the DMLE?”

She tilted her head at its haughtiest angle and said, coldly, “I judged that the Head Auror was unlikely to take action against his most celebrated officer, and I felt that Draco’s situation was too dire for delay. My husband and I might eventually have persuaded Mr. Robards of his duty, but it would have taken too long.”

“I see.” Turning to Robards with raised brows, she prompted, “Auror Robards, did you, in fact, do your duty?”

Robards stood. “I did. I questioned Auror Potter, examined his wand, and found no evidence whatsoever of illegal magic. I would have detained him while I investigated further, but Draco Potter explained the necessity of having his husband close to him during his pregnancy, so I let him return home. It seemed to me more important to protect the child than to keep Potter in a cell.”

“Did you investigate further?”

“No. It was obvious that the case hinged on the legality of the Fertility ritual, and as I had no knowledge in this area, I prepared to submit a report to the Wizengamot for review.”

“But the Malfoys filed charges before you could do it.”

He nodded. “Correct.”

“So, in your opinion, the only unusual magic Harry Potter has performed is the Fertility magic he used to get Draco Potter pregnant.”

“And to keep the baby alive for the last seven months,” Robards added.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Robards sat down.

Turning back to Narcissa, Marchbanks asked, “Mrs. Malfoy, did you or your husband research the supposed Dark magic used on your son?”

“We did.”

“And what did you find?”

For the first time, his mother looked uncertain. She shifted from one foot to the other, cast a sideways glance at Draco, then lifted her chin in cool defiance. “We were unable to identify it.”

Marchbanks’ brows scaled up her forehead. “Then how do you know it’s Dark magic?”

A slight flush tinted Narcissa’s cheeks. “By its effects.”

It was Shacklebolt who responded to that, his voice like warm treacle flowing through the cold, stone chamber. “Pregnancy is a sign of Dark magic, now? You astonish me, Narcissa.”

“ _Wizard_ pregnancy!” she snapped back. “ _Unnatural_ pregnancy! A pregnancy that _destroys_ body and mind!”

Countless eyes swiveled to Draco once more, studying him for signs of bodily destruction. A faint ripple of laughter swept through the crowd and quickly faded. Draco smiled sweetly but said nothing.

After a moment of disbelieving silence, Shacklebolt said, “I think we’ve heard quite enough of that, Narcissa.”

“I agree,” Marchbanks said. “I’d like to hear from Mr. Potter—Harry, that is. Are there any objections from my fellow Interrogators?” Shacklebolt and Pauncefoot shook their heads. “Sit down, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“I haven’t finished.”

“You have. For now anyway. Mr. Potter? If you would?”

Narcissa reluctantly took her seat, as Harry rose from his (giving Draco’s hand a squeeze before letting go of it).

“Do you mind if we dispense with the formalities and call you Harry?”

“Not at all,” Harry replied easily. “We wouldn’t want to confuse Potters.”

Marchbanks smiled slightly at this and nodded. “Now, about this Fertility magic…”

They were on safe ground now. Draco could sit back and enjoy the show. He watched Harry—tall and handsome and authoritative in his Auror regalia—win over the Wizengamot with a sheepish smile and an unabashed avowal of his delight at the prospect of having a child with his adored husband. He listened to Granger burble enthusiastically about the sexual peccadillos of the Egyptian Pharaohs of the Twenty-sixth Dynasty, and to Healer Bulstrode call him a perfectly healthy (if too thin) pregnant wizard in the most tragic of tones. He kept his mouth shut and his bum firmly in his chair (exercising the most exemplary self-control), while Harry and Granger walked the Interrogators through a copy of the ritual, showing them the spells and potions used and explaining their effects. (It was agony listening to Harry, of all people, talking potions and even worse to hear Granger detailing the more intimate aspects of the ritual, but Draco had promised _faithfully_ not to speak out of turn, so he bit his tongue and smiled through it all.)

The Interrogators listened to all this with rapt attention. Then Marchbanks wrapped up their testimony by asking, “Is there any basis to the Malfoys’ claim that this is Dark magic?”

“None,” Harry replied promptly. “It’s creative, nurturing, deeply personal magic that strengthens the bond between partners, with nothing dark or destructive in it. I could show you one of the spells right now, if you like.”

“I object!” Bloodworth shouted, popping up out of his chair with comical haste. “You cannot allow the Accused to commit these atrocities upon the person of his victim _in this very room!_ ”

“Oh, be quiet, Mr. Bloodworth,” Madam Marchbanks snapped. Turning to Draco, she asked, “Are you comfortable with this? If the magic is, as Harry says, deeply personal, it may not be appropriate in a public setting.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s just a spell.”

Levering himself carefully to his feet, he crossed to where Harry stood and took his outstretched hand.

Harry pulled him into his side and bent to murmur in his ear, “Are you sure you’re good with this?”

“Of course I am.”

“ _I must protest!_ ” Bloodworth railed, even as Harry pulled Draco back against his chest and slipped both arms around his waist.

“The incantation is Coptic and very difficult to pronounce,” Harry informed the judges, ignoring Bloodworth’s interruption, “so I don’t generally use it. If you want to see the wording, it’s in there.” He nodded at the scroll lying on Marchbanks’ desk.

“You do wandless _and_ wordless magic?” Pauncefoot demanded. “On your own _baby?_ ”

Shacklebolt chuckled. “This is Harry Potter we’re talking about. Go on, my boy. Show us this spell.”

Harry just nodded, bent to rest his head against Draco’s, and stroked both hands over his belly. The familiar magic poured over Draco, caressing him, gathering in his womb and wrapping round the baby that slept peacefully there. He felt his muscles loosen and the walls of his womb ripple as they softened. It was always a wonderful feeling, giving him relief from pain and tangible proof of his husband’s overwhelming love. But now, when there was no urgency behind it, the feeling was euphoric.

Draco sighed luxuriously and leaned into Harry’s body, his eyes falling closed and his head dropping back against the taller man’s shoulder. Harry’s arms tightened around him, supporting him, as his own muscles turned to water. And Harry’s beloved voice murmured privately in his ear.

“Hold on, love. We have an audience, remember?”

“Mmmm…” Draco dragged his eyes open and twisted his head to meet Harry’s gaze. “Too bad.”

That earned him a flashing grin. A loving squeeze. A swift peck on the nose. Then Harry was settling him gently on his own feet and clasping his arm to steady him.

“Draco?” Marchbanks demanded. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly,” Draco assured her, making no effort to hide the deep satisfaction in his face or the sultry burr in his voice. He gave his tummy a possessive pat. “And so is my little Quaffle, thanks to Harry.”

Uneasy laughter met this remark. It seemed to light a fire under Narcissa, and she leapt to her feet with a good deal less poise than she’d shown up to now. When she spoke her voice was shaking, and this time, Draco detected no artistry in it, just pure rage.

“How dare you?!” she hissed at the row of impassive judges. “How _dare you_ allow that creature to degrade my son in such a way?!”

“Oh, take a damper, Narcissa,” Pauncefoot retorted, but Narcissa was beyond hearing her.

“You accept his word that he’s not using Dark magic, when you can see with your own eyes what it does to my defenseless son! So what if it has not been declared illegal?! So what if it does not bear the official label of Dark magic?! It has turned my son into a… a…”

“Flowerpot?” Draco muttered, dragging a laugh from Harry and a stern glare from Granger.

“He jokes about it!” She flung out a hand in Draco’s direction. “Potter degrades my son in front of half the wizarding world, and he _jokes about it!_ What more proof do you need that his mind is broken?!”

Madam Pauncefoot uttered a snort of laughter and said, “You keep calling him _my son_ , as if he were two years old and feeble-minded into the bargain.”

“If only he were still a child! Then I would not have to beg for your permission to protect him!”

“How much more of this do we have to listen to?” Pauncefoot growled.

“I think we’ve heard quite enough,” Marchbanks agreed, but Shacklebolt forestalled her with a raised hand.

“I have one more question for Lucius and Narcissa.” Turning his dark, compelling gaze on Draco’s parents, he said, “I understand that your primary goal is to see Harry Potter in prison, but then what? If Draco is, as you say, unbalanced, what would you have us do with him?”

Lucius stood and drew up to Narcissa’s side. His voice was smooth and urbane—almost persuasive, if you didn’t know the cold, reptilian brain behind it—and his manner as close to respectful as it ever got when he said, “Put him in our care.”

Harry and Draco exchanged an eye-roll, while Pauncefoot audibly snorted and Marchbanks squinted at them.

“What of his son, Felix?” Shacklebolt prompted. “And the child he now carries? What of the magic needed to safeguard his pregnancy, this pregnancy you find so unnatural and unforgivable?”

Lucius, hearing the challenge in Shacklebolt’s words, lifted his head arrogantly and let a hint of his usual ice creep into his voice. “Felix is our grandson, and we welcome him into our home. Indeed, we always intended to raise him as a Malfoy. As for my son’s regrettable condition… we will do our best to care for him and his child. If he does, in truth, need magic to support his pregnancy, we will provide it.” The ghost of a sneer lifted his lip. “I venture to say that anything Potter can do, we can do as well.”

“In your dreams, Father,” Draco said, just loud enough to be heard by the judges on the first bench.

“We want our son well and strong,” Lucius said through his teeth, forcibly restraining himself from rising to Draco’s bait. “We will do whatever it takes to achieve that end, even place him under the care of qualified healers. Perhaps a few months on the Janus Thickey ward, where he cannot harm himself, will answer the purpose. As I say, we will do whatever it takes.”

His father finally turned to look at Draco, fixing him with an Arctic gaze so like his own, and yet so different. “He is, after all, a Malfoy and my heir.”

And that was the final straw.

“How _generous_ of you, Father,” Draco drawled, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “You would deprive me of my home, my husband, my son and my freedom in one fell swoop, all because I’m the Malfoy heir and so _infinitely_ precious to you!”

“I was wondering how long he’d manage to keep his tongue between his teeth,” Pauncefoot muttered in a stage whisper.

Draco favored her with a twinkling smile. “Just waiting for the opportune moment, Ma’am.”

“I am offering to get you the care you so obviously need,” Lucius purred, a hint of menace in his voice that Draco suspected only he could detect.

“This is all the care I need,” Draco retorted, pulling Harry’s arms pointedly around his swollen body. “And unlike yours, it does not include restraints or padded walls.”

“ _Mis_ -ter Potter! If you would like to address the court…” Marchbanks began, only to be rolled over by Draco in his best dramatic, warrior-barrister style.

“I most certainly would, Madam Marchbanks! I think it’s past time that someone translated my parents’ testimony into plain English! For example, when they say the words ‘my son’, what they mean is ‘my property’. When they talk about returning me to the bosom of my loving family, or protecting me, or finding me the help that I need, they mean that they want me under their control so they can take possession of my child once it’s born. When they refer to my madness or say that I am not myself, that means that I disagree with them. And when they talk about Harry abusing and brainwashing me, they mean that he isn’t afraid of them, that he doesn’t cow-tow to them, and that he encourages me to be myself without reference to their wishes. Let’s see… Did I miss anything?”

“Mister _Potter!_ ”

“Oh, yes. When my mother cries and does that— that wobbly thing with her lip?” He flicked his fingers at his own pouting, purple lips. “She’s manipulating you.”

“ _Mister_. _Potter_.” For a delirious moment, Draco thought that the unflappable Griselda Marchbanks was going to facepalm. Much to his disappointment, she did not. Instead, she fixed him with a quelling glare and ground out, “If you wish to address this court, you may, but _without_ the Color Commentary.”

Draco bowed. He wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, with a Hogwarts carriage under his robes, but he did. He even added a flourish of his hand for good measure. “My apologies, Madam Marchbanks.”

As he straightened up, he saw Marchbanks bite her lips. Pauncefoot and Shacklebolt didn’t even try to hide their grins.

“Now that you have the necessary tools to understand what you’re hearing, I will curb my enthusiasm and stick to the facts. Fact one: my parents’,” here he swept his arm out in a gesture that seemed (by no power visible to the onlookers) to knock Lucius and Narcissa back into their chairs, “only interest in me is my unborn child, whom they hope to groom as the next Malfoy heir. They tried this with Felix—the son they had me _raped_ to produce—but you didn’t oblige them, and when Harry and I had Felix cut out of the Black-Malfoy inheritance, they lost all interest in us. We did not hear a peep out of them, until they learned that I was pregnant. Then, out of the blue, after three years of blessed peace, I once more became the object of their obsession. Or should I say… their _adored_ and _treasured_ son?

“If you apply the rules of translation to my father’s speeches, you’ll quickly see that he wants me back at Malfoy Manor, under his control, until my child is born. At that point, the child becomes all-important and I am in the way. I expect that I would disappear into St. Mungo’s and never come out, though I suppose,” he mused, striking a thoughtful pose with one finger tapping his lip, “it’s _remotely_ possible that he’d let me go back to Harry…”

He abruptly waved away the notion and was all brisk certainty again. “Except that Harry will be serving a life sentence in Azkaban, so that’s out. Fact two: Harry has done nothing to me that I didn’t agree to and used no form of Dark or proscribed magic on me. My parents’ rage against him is entirely due to the fact that he is more powerful than they are and able to protect me from their machinations. I suppose that they’re also embarrassed by my pregnancy and need someone who does not bear the name of Malfoy to blame for it. Of course, they’re neither so embarrassed nor so morally outraged that they wouldn’t accept the baby as the Malfoy heir, because my parents never met a principle they wouldn’t discard in a pinch.”

That earned him a few amused scoffs from the audience.

“Again, if we translate my mother’s eloquence into English, we see that she is desperate to get me away from Harry’s protection and influence. _Not_ because that influence is truly malign, but because it runs counter to her wishes. All her outpouring of motherly love is really frustration—that I won’t listen to her, that I won’t put the Malfoy family ahead of my own, that I won’t abandon the man I love and return to my pureblood traditions, that I won’t let her and my father use my unborn child the way they used me… The list goes on. It all comes down to the same thing. I stopped being a Malfoy the day I committed myself to Harry and our family, and my parents will never accept that. Nor will they ever forgive Harry for encouraging it. Ergo, I am insane and Harry is responsible.

“Finally, I should explain that my mother’s tearful account of our meeting is meant to obscure the fact that she violated a Wizengamot order when she lured me and my son into that house. That she held me there against my will, knowing I had no magic with which to defend myself. And that she threatened to _kidnap_ me, when I tried to leave! Even after I told her that the baby and I needed Harry’s magic to survive, she was ready to haul me off to Malfoy Manor against my will, just to have her way! And yet, in her mind, _I_ am the irrational one. The unhinged one. The one who cannot be trusted to make his own decisions or care for his own child…”

“Tell them all of it, Nephew!”

The call came from the first bench, off to Draco’s left, and he turned to see Andromeda rise to her feet. She looked outwardly regal and composed (like any good Black) but he knew her well enough to detect the pain in her face and the tremor in her voice.

“Madam Tonks,” Marchbanks scolded, “you may not interrupt…”

Draco lifted a hand, stilling her protest. “I’ll answer her, Ma’am, if you’ll allow it.”

After a moment, Marchbanks nodded, and Draco turned his eyes back to his aunt.

“Go on, Andromeda. What have I left out?”

“That you were distraught!” Andromeda said. “That you were abusive—to me and to your mother! That you were physically _violent!_ Do you dare deny it?”

Draco gazed steadily at her for a long moment, then answered, evenly, “I was angry. I was frightened. I was trapped in a room with two powerful witches, separated from my son, completely helpless, with no weapon but my words. I may have spoken harshly. I may even have raised my voice—I don’t honestly remember. But I could not have done violence to you, even if I had wanted to, and the only people I recall being physically struck were Felix and myself, when we ran into Mother’s Shield charm.”

Pauncefoot suddenly cleared her throat for attention. “Hold on a minute, Potter. If you couldn’t perform magic, how did you get out of that house?”

Draco gave her a swift, genuine smile and replied, “Bob.”

“Who?”

“My son. Felix. He broke through the Shield charm, unlocked the floo, and demanded that I take him away from the Scary Lady.”

Her grizzled brows flew up. “He’s how old? Three? That’s… quite remarkable!”

“It’s bloody terrifying, is what it is, but that’s my Bob.”

Andromeda was not done with him. Cutting in on this exchange, she railed, her voice now audibly shaking, “And instead of being satisfied with your escape, you sent Harry to attack me! You had him cast me out of my own _family!_ ”

“That was Harry’s choice, not mine, but I can’t say I’m sorry he did it.”

“It was wrong! _Cruel!_ Harry would never do such a thing on his own…”

“I would,” Harry growled. The glare he gave Andromeda would have shriveled a lesser woman where she stood. “I _did,_ and you’re lucky that’s all I did. You could have gone to Azkaban for helping Narcissa.”

“Why didn’t she?” Pauncefoot demanded. “Why didn’t you have both of them arrested?”

It was Draco who answered, his gaze dwelling sadly on his aunt. “I would gladly have had Mother arrested, but I couldn’t do that without arresting Andromeda as well, and she’s all the parent my little cousin Teddy has. I couldn’t take her away from him. And unlike my mother,” he offered Andromeda a slight, wistful smile, “she genuinely believed she was helping me.”

There was a beat of silence, then Kingsley Shacklebolt rose to his feet to address the throng.

“Members of the Wizengamot, I believe we’ve heard enough. I, for one, know what needs to be done.”

He paused. No one so much as coughed. With a satisfied nod, he went on, his mellifluous voice effortlessly filling the dungeon well.

“It is painfully clear that crimes have been committed and that the guilty parties are not in their right minds. It would be irresponsible of us to ignore this advanced degree of mental instability. We owe it to the sufferers, as much as to the Magical community, to get them the _help they so_ _obviously need._ ”

This last phrase fairly dripped with irony and brought a secret smile to Draco’s face. He quietly resumed his seat next to Harry, then took the hand his husband held out to him. Both men kept their eyes on Shacklebolt and their expressions carefully bland, but the way their hands gripped together betrayed their nerves.

“I propose,” Shacklebolt went on, in a more authoritative tone, “that we put Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy under a forty-eight hour hold on the Janus Thickey ward of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. This will give the healers time to conduct a thorough assessment of their mental and magical states and provide us with a recommendation for further treatment.”

Dead silence met this pronouncement. Harry and Granger exchanged a goggling look, then Harry turned to whisper in Draco’s ear, “Did he just send your parents to the loony bin?”

Before Draco could respond, Shacklebolt started talking again, and since Draco didn’t want to miss a single, precious word, he just nodded, his eyes glued to the Minister.

“I further propose that we reserve the right to pass sentence on the Malfoys for violating a Wizengamot order, attempted kidnapping, filing false charges, perjury, and any other charges that may arise upon closer examination of the facts, after we have a clearer picture of their mental competence.

“And finally, I propose that we expand the existing order limiting their access to the minor child Felix Felicis Malfoy to include the entire Potter family. Under this order, if the Malfoys try to contact Draco, his husband, or his children—no matter how many he has—they will be sent straight to Azkaban.”

His eyes swept the benches above. “All in favor please rise.”

Marchbanks and Pauncefoot got immediately to their feet. A few more purple-robed figures followed suit. Then a few more. Then a few more. Then they began coming up in handfuls, until well more than half were standing.

“Sentence is passed,” Marchbanks said, igniting an eruption of noise even louder than the one that had greeted Draco upon his entrance.

People shouted, whistled, raged, laughed, shrieked at their neighbors, and hooted defiance at the Malfoys. Andromeda collapsed into her seat, weeping steadily. Ron leaned over the barrier (almost fell over) in his eagerness to cheer his friends.

Down on the dungeon floor, Bloodworth was in imminent danger of bursting a blood vessel, so loudly did he scream his objections and demands for a new hearing, a new set of Interrogators, the forcible removal of the Chief Warlock and the entire fucking Wizengamot if she did not immediately reverse the sentence. Lucius was raving, nearly frothing at the mouth. Narcissa was more restrained, but her furious tears were far more impressive than Lucius’ snarled threats. And at the center of it all, Harry pulled Draco to his feet and gathered him into his arms.

“You did it,” he murmured, his mouth hovering just over Draco’s. “You saved me. My warrior in Mod boots and makeup.”

“ _We_ did it,” Draco amended, “but I’m happy to take the credit.”

“You’re going to take a lot more than that, when I get you home.”

“Mmm, promises, promises…”

Harry leaned in to capture Draco’s mouth, and Draco opened it hungrily to the searching of the other man’s tongue. His lipstick instantly began to melt, to smear, and the feeling went straight to his crotch. He felt his cock swell impudently. It occurred to him, as Harry forcibly tilted his head and plunged more deeply into his willing mouth, that this was not the most decorous place for such a display, but he quickly discarded the thought.

Fuck it. Harry wanted him, and Harry could have him. Here or anywhere. It didn’t matter to Draco, not now that the entire fucking wizarding world knew that he’d let his husband get him up the duff.

There was a disturbance, as the two Aurors who’d escorted Harry to the hearing now hustled Lucius and Narcissa out of it. Harry looked up as they passed, breaking the kiss. Draco wiped a thumb over his lip to clean off the purple lipstick that marred it but only succeeding in smearing it more. At his touch, Harry looked back at him, grinning down into his upturned face. Draco’s cock promptly started to leak.

“Wizengamot hearings seem to have a powerful effect on you,” he remarked in a sultry voice. “Maybe I should bring you along more often.”

“That’s a brilliant idea.” Harry bent to snatch another, fiercer kiss. “I could fuck you up against the dungeon wall every time you won a case.”

“Under your invisibility cloak?”

“If you insist.”

“Honestly, you two,” Granger cut in, “can’t you wait ’til you get home?”

“No!” they chorused together, then broke out in matching grins.

“Let’s get to the Atrium floos before they’re mobbed,” she urged. “Ron will meet us up there.”

Draco scanned the benches rising so high above them. Most were still full, but the crowd was starting to break up now that the show was over. They would have to leave at once or wait here ’til most of the loiterers were gone.

“You’re right. It’s now or never.”

He caught Harry’s hand and made for the lower door as quickly as his gravid state would allow. They had taken only a few steps, when a hail came from the lowest bench.

“Mr. Potter? Draco?” Draco stopped and turned to find a wizard he had never seen before standing at the barrier. He wore the inky-black robes of an Unspeakable and had a pleasant smile on his face that did not reach his cold, blue eyes. “May I have a moment of your time?”

Draco raked him with a measuring look, then resumed walking, tossing a casual, “No,” over his shoulder. The man did not try to stop him again, just watched him cross the dungeon floor with Harry and Granger in tow. When the huge door swung shut on Draco’s heels, it cut off that steady, blue gaze.

* * *

They tumbled out of the floo in Grimmauld Place, still breathless and laughing in triumph at their escape from the Ministry. Their flight to the floo had been an adventure that Draco had no desire to repeat in this lifetime, but the sheer relief when they finally stepped into the green flames had gone to his head like a shot of Firewhiskey. Now, a brief, dizzying time later, they were safe behind their wards where no one could touch them.

No mobs intent on catching a glimpse of Potter’s pregnant spouse. No screaming reporters or snapping cameras. No anxious friends. No Bob.

Just Harry and Draco. Alone at last.

Harry snaked out a hand to clasp the back of Draco’s head and pull their mouths together. Draco fell into his chest, turned side-on to keep his belly out of the way, his head tilted sharply up, his lips clinging hungrily to Harry’s. He could not catch his breath or his balance. The lips plundering his tasted of melted lipstick and lust. The erection rubbing against his hip was the size of a Beater’s bat. His own cock was aching and wet, one stroke away from spurting in his pants. And it had taken them all of three seconds after stepping out of the fireplace to get here.

“ _Nnngh…_ Harry,” he groaned against those demanding lips.

“You promised me,” Harry mumbled between kisses. “As soon as we were through the floo. Your arse… the wall… ’S much’s I wanted…”

“Oh, fuck, Harry,” Draco gasped, as a surge of magic brought his color-streaked hair tumbling down around his shoulders, and Harry’s fingers fastened almost brutally in it. “Are you going to drag me off to your bed by the hair?”

“No.” Another burst of magic banished Draco’s clothing in a blink. “I’m going to throw you up against that wall and fuck you to tears.”

“Yes. Please. _Ahhh!_ ”

This last was startled out of him as Harry pushed him face-first into the nearest stretch of empty wall, pinning his head to the watered-silk wallpaper by a fistful of hair. He clenched his eyes shut and braced his palms to either side of his head, knowing full well what was coming. Then Harry leaned close to whisper hotly in his ear.

“I’ve been picturing you just like this all day. Your face against the silver wallpaper. Your hair all snarled up in my fist. Your makeup wrecked where I kissed you.”

Draco felt his cock throb agonizingly and a bead of moisture slide down its length. He whimpered.

“I’ve been hearing you make that noise,” Harry assured him, his breath burning Draco’s face. “Watching you wet yourself with hunger. Listening to you beg…”

“ _Pleeease_ ,” Draco keened.

“I’ve been feeling you shiver at my touch and arch your back and spread your legs like you can’t get me inside you fast enough.”

“Please, Harry, please please please…”

Harry laughed and drove into him, lifting his feet from the floor with the power of his thrust and turning his pleas to a long wail of pain. Strong hands fastened around his upper thighs, supporting and spreading them, hoisting Draco up even higher, pinning him between the wall and Harry’s pistoning hips. He ducked his head so that the top pressed into the wall and moaned his encouragement as Harry thrust still harder.

“My savior,” Harry panted. “My gorgeous fucking savior…”

Draco began to laugh hysterically, tears making black trails down his cheeks, his breath hitching, his shoulder shaking, and still he moaned wantonly every time Harry nailed the sweet spot inside him.

“My knight in shining… (with a particularly brutal thrust) _fucking_ armor…”

“S-stop!” Draco cried helplessly. The orgasm building in him was tectonic. Enough to shake the house from its foundations. He wanted it desperately but was almost afraid to let go.

“Stop fucking you?” Harry demanded, slamming into Draco yet again, driving his head into the wall and making his palms slip treacherously over the smooth wallpaper.

“Stop bein— _nngh!_ Being… such an _arse!_ ”

“My Lochinvar,” Harry taunted, even as he dragged another panting, aching moan out of Draco. “My warrior. My fabulous fucking flowerpot.”

The caress of his husband’s voice, the remorseless pounding of his hips, the girth of his cock stretching and filling him, the unbearable pleasure it ignited in his body when it nailed that perfect spot were all too much for Draco. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He couldn’t stop it, even if it meant that he brought the house crashing down around their ears. So, with a last ragged cry of “ _Harry!_ ” he let go and let himself come undone.

He might well have wrecked the house. He didn’t really know. He felt the spike of ecstasy in his groin, shooting up his spine to ignite in his brainstem. Felt his cock jerk. Felt his body shudder and clamp down on the magnificent thing inside him. Then Harry let his magic loose, and the full power of Draco’s orgasm slammed into him. He blacked out.

When he came back to himself, he was kneeling on the floor, clasped by Harry’s body and arms, still full of his cock and slippery with his juices. His heart was racing, his breath coming in sobs. His head ached dully where he’d bashed it into the wall, and his scalp burned where Harry had nearly pulled his hair out.

All in all, he felt bloody fantastic.

Harry sensed the moment when he regained his senses and nuzzled a kiss to the back of his neck. “Okay, love?”

“Mmm. That was…”

“Intense?”

“Fucking brilliant.”

“I’m glad. You earned it.”

“That was for me?” Draco scrambled to collect his scattered wits and respond with the proper snarkiness (almost). “I thought it was your reward for behaving your reckless Gryffindor arse in that courtroom.”

Harry laughed. Drawing gently out of Draco’s body, he turned him around and took him in his arms. Draco settled gratefully into his embrace, accepted his kiss, and purred his satisfaction when Harry caressed his swollen belly. The baby obligingly squirmed a bit, pushing against his daddy’s hand in greeting.

“Let’s call it a celebration,” Harry suggested. “We both behaved ourselves in the courtroom—well, mostly—we weren’t sent to Azkaban, and we got out of the Atrium alive in spite of all those bloody journos. Oh, and your parents get to spend some quality time gazing at their navels on the Janus Thickey ward! I’d say that’s cause for celebration.”

“Shame it’s only for two days,” Draco murmured, nuzzling into the curve of Harry’s neck and nipping lightly at his skin.

“It’s better than nothing. And if we’re really lucky, the healers will decide they’re genuinely nutty and keep them there for a good long while.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Maybe not, but Kingsley made it clear that he plans to punish them, one way or the other. They might prefer St. Mungo’s to the alternative.”

Draco chuckled, tickling Harry’s throat with his breath. Then he purred, “Up for another round of celebration?”

“Always.”

Shifting his hold on the man in his arms, Harry settled him back against the wall.

Draco eyed him from beneath the sweep of his lashes, his sideways smile revealing the dimple in his cheek, and said, “You seem to be wearing a great deal of unnecessary clothing.”

Harry looked down at his own body, still fully clothed except for his unfastened robes and gaping flies, and laughed. A wave of his hand banished every last stitch. The two men stared at each other with obvious hunger, then Harry slowly leaned forward over the mound of Draco’s belly to approach his lips.

They were a breath away from kissing—from losing themselves in the heat of each other’s touch—when a _mew_ of distress sounded from just beside them.

Their heads swiveled in unison. Their eyes found the tiny, black form of Oobleck gazing at them from the doorway. They exchanged an exasperated look, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me feed her to the owl!”

Harry just laughed and sank into the interrupted kiss, oblivious to the green-gold eyes watching them so reproachfully.

**_To be continued…_ **


	6. Letters from the Ministry and Other Developments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter, but I'm taking my computer in for repairs this afternoon and may not have any way to write or publish for a few days, so I thought I'd just take my chances and post it. I hope you like it!

The headlines started appearing the next day. Not surprisingly, the _Daily Prophet_ was first off the mark, with the entire front page dedicated to Harry’s trial and its many revelations. It gave short shrift to Harry’s acquittal, vouchsafing him only a few inches of copy halfway down the page, beneath a modest headline that read: _POTTER CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES_. Lucius and Narcissa’s fate ranked a little higher on the interest scale, earning a picture of the notorious couple being escorted from the dungeon, as well as a longish article that detailed their laundry list of violations and (false, though this was not mentioned) accusations against both Harry and Draco. But it was Draco’s pregnancy that dominated the page.

The headline—in letters nearly two inches high—that sprawled from margin to margin read: _DISGRACED MALFOY HEIR CAUGHT IN PREGNANCY SCAM._ The picture under it showed a hugely pregnant Draco looking distracted and annoyed, fending off a reporter with one hand while clinging to Harry’s arm with the other. It had been snapped in the Atrium, as the two men fought their way to the floo through a shouting, shoving mob, and immortalized the one moment all day when Draco’s aplomb had deserted him (no doubt the editors had discarded a dozen or more photos of him smiling and flirting with the crowd). The story itself was confused, to say the least. While the headline boldly proclaimed the pregnancy a scam, the author wavered between accusing Draco of tricking his gullible husband with a faked pregnancy and of entrapping him with a real but unwanted one.

Copies of the paper flooded in to Grimmauld Place, along with letters, gifts, Howlers and a variety of (sometimes very ingenious) hexes. The pile of mail on the front stoop that first morning was big enough to block the doorway. Harry incinerated all the Howlers and scanned the pile for dangerous spells, before levitating the rest inside and dumping it on the kitchen table to slip and spill between the breakfast plates.

Draco knew better than to touch the newspapers. He left those for Harry to sulk over and went for the packages instead (“Careful!” Harry warned him. “They could bite!”). The first one contained a pair of pale blue baby booties, the second a remarkably ugly plastic rattle with a crude Gryffindor lion painted on it.

Draco held the vile object up between his thumb and forefinger, grimacing. “ _Eurgh!_ ”

Bob, regarding all of this with interest from his highchair, stretched out a hand toward it. “C’n I see?”

“No, you may not! I won’t have my child touching anything so… so…”

“I warned you,” Harry reminded him, without taking his eyes from the paper spread out in front of him. “Bloody hell! Listen to this…”

“I don’t want to. Just _Incendio_ the wretched thing.”

“Only if you leave off opening those boxes before you…”

“ _Fuck!_ ” Draco howled, as a thick, foul-smelling miasma gushed from the box in his hands.

Harry’s head snapped up in alarm. He sniffed, grimaced, and clapped a hand over his nose and mouth. “What is _that?!_ ”

Draco peered cautiously into the box, retching as the smell hit him still more strongly. “Rotten Doxy eggs.”

“ _Bleh!_ ” Harry Vanished the box with a wave of his hand, but the smell lingered. “We need to open a window.”

“We’re in the basement, you dolt. There are no windows.”

“Fuck,” Bob ventured experimentally.

Two heads snapped around to glare at him, and Harry leveled a warning finger. “Don’t you dare, young man!”

“Papa says it.”

“That doesn’t mean you can.”

“Dolt?”the irrepressible boy offered, winter-grey eyes wide and guileless.

“Not that, either.” Turning to Draco in a huff, he added fretfully, “Seriously, Draco, if you don’t learn to guard your tongue…”

“Fuck!” Draco shouted again, this time slapping at the kitten seated on his tummy as she snagged one of the booties with her claws. “Drop it, you little… _bête noire!_ ” *

“Draco,” Harry sighed in exasperation.

“What’s a bet nwar?” Bob asked.

“It’s what I’d call you, if you weren’t so _pale_ ,” Draco growled, while struggling to relieve Oobleck of her new toy. The knitted bootie was definitely getting the worst of things and starting to unravel.

“Daddy isn’t pale. Is he a… what you said?”

Draco paused in his battle with the kitten to shoot a laughing look at Harry, taking in hiswild black hair, his magnificent green eyes, and the reluctantly adoring smile tilting his lips. Thinking of the day before—of being shoved up against the wall and fucked ’til he lost the plot—Draco purred, “Most definitely.”

“Git,” Harry retorted.

Over the next couple of days, the headlines proliferated, spreading to every periodical and daily paper in the wizarding world. They came from Britain, Europe, even as far away as Australia and America. Friends, well-wishers and outraged members of the public all seemed to feel that Harry was not sufficiently aware of the scandal his disreputable husband had ignited, so they sent him copies and clippings by the tonne, until the sturdy, old kitchen table groaned under the weight of them.

 _Witch_ _Weekly_ took an indulgent view, proclaiming: _MAGICAL BRITAIN’S FIRST COUPLE NOW A TRIO._ The photo that filled the magazine’s glossy cover was of Harry and Draco embracing in the courtroom, gazing heatedly at each other, then moving in for a kiss. It was intimate, to say the least, and actually made Draco blush, but it was a nice picture for all of that.

The _Quibbler_ was more interested in the magic used to impregnate a wizard than in the identity of the people involved. The article speculated wildly about the Ministry’s role in Draco’s pregnancy and suggested that he had actually escaped from a secret facility run by the Unspeakables, where they were experimenting on captive wizards. The headline read: _MINISTRY BREEDING NEW RACE OF MAGICAL CHILDREN?_ (Draco got a good laugh out of that one.)

 _Quidditch Quarterly_ rushed out a special issue with the amusing title _SEEKER CATCHES QUAFFLE FOR THE WIN!_ and a picture of Draco sitting in the hearing, stroking his belly and smiling.

The International papers couldn’t quite make up their minds what line to take. Some kept to the tradition of fawning over their hero, with headlines like: _CHOSEN ONE MAKES HISTORY… AGAIN!_ Others were less complimentary. _HOW FAR WILL MALFOY GO?_ the Germans wanted to know. _THE CHOSEN DUPE_ the Aussies announced. And the Americans consigned them all to the Closed Ward with: _BRITS LOSE THEIR MAGICAL MINDS._

But it was the _Daily Prophet_ , as always, that took the prize for sleazy tabloid reporting. The paper continued to devote most of its front page to the scandal, and the number of stories grew to staggering proportions. The latest headline blared: _MAD MALFOYS—DOES IT RUN IN THE FAMILY?_ and speculated at length on Draco’s mental health, going all the way back to Hogwarts. When Harry (who, much to Draco’s annoyance, insisted on reading every stinking word printed about him) got to the bit about Draco letting Death Eaters into the school to (supposedly) save parents he now (reportedly) despised, he exploded in a torrent of threats and abuse that had Bob giggling and Oobleck eyeing him dubiously.

Draco let him vent for a few minutes, then pushed the pot of marmalade across the table to him and remarked, coolly, “Calm down and have a muffin.”

“I don’t _want_ a muffin! I want to roast Barnabas Cuffe’s bollocks over a slow fire!”

“Now who’s giving the urchin dangerous ideas? Harry, it’s just the bloody _Prophet._ No one cares.”

“ _No one cares?_ The entire wizarding world reads this rag!”

“I don’t. And you didn’t, until you lost your grip and started obsessing about what the rest of the world thinks. What happened to the Harry Potter I married? The one who scoffed at bad Press and laughed in the face of Basilisks?”

“He’s worried about his family,” Harry mumbled.

Draco regarded him for a moment—watching him pick his poor, abused, unwanted muffin to bits that he scattered thoughtlessly across the table—and said, “You need to get back to work. Then you wouldn’t have time to sulk over what the _Prophet_ prints about me.”

“I can’t.” Harry threw another mangled lump of muffin at his plate, missing by a country mile, and groused, “I’m still suspended.”

“Talk to Robards.”

“I did.” Another clump went flying. “He said he wants to wait ’til the furor dies down. That I’m too _visible_ and _controversial_ right now.”

“Ah. So _that’s_ why you’re so upset about the articles.

“Fucking _Prophet._ ”

“What’s a fucking prophet?” Bob asked disingenuously. When Harry and Draco both glared at him, he favored them with his most innocent, sparkling smile and shoved a half a marmalade-smeared muffin into his mouth. “Is it same as a bloody prophet?” he asked around his sticky mouthful.

“Bob, I swear to Merlin…” Draco began, but Harry silenced him with a look.

“Don’t swear. Don’t. It’ll only dig you in deeper.”

“What’s the baby’s name today?” Bob chirped, distracting his fathers from his blatant transgressions of good manners.

This was a favorite game of Draco’s. He’d started it to annoy Harry—every day choosing a name guaranteed to make him cringe—but Bob loved it and had quickly pushed it past the bounds of mere husband-baiting. Unfortunately, Draco’s repertoire of Muggle names was limited, so he was often caught floundering.

After a brief mental scramble, he came up with, “Sid.”

“It was Sid yesterday,” Bob protested.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“It _was._ I want a _new_ one _._ ”

“Pregnancy brain…” Harry taunted softly from across the table.

“ _New_ one, _new_ one,” Bob sing-songed, kicking his feet against the highchair.

“All right, fine! If it can’t be Sid, then it’s… Lenny.”

“You used Lenny last week,” Harry informed him sweetly.

“Shut it and read your paper,” Draco snapped.

To give himself something to do and shut down this singularly irritating conversation, Draco dug into the stack of unsorted mail in the middle of the table. After his experience with the Doxy eggs, he never touched the boxes (it had taken several hours and some of Harry’s most potent charms to clear the stench from the air), and he only read those letters that came from people he knew. The rest were swept into a heap at one end of the long table and left for Harry to _Incendio_.

Today’s pickings were slim, though the morning was young, and owls would undoubtedly continue to flock in throughout the day. He found nothing of interest until he’d shifted several pounds of parchment off to the discard pile. Then, near the bottom of the drift, he found two crisp, official-looking envelopes bearing the Wizengamot’s silver W on the front and the Ministry seal on the back flap. Both were addressed to Draco Potter.

He broke the seal on the heavier envelope and extracted a sheaf of folded parchment. The top page was a letter that read:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_This is to inform you that Lucius and Narcissa Black Malfoy have been released from St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The staff of St. Mungo’s Janus Thickey Ward have determined that Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy are not an immediate danger to themselves and can reasonably be treated as outpatients. However, since their peculiar obsessions do pose a danger to others (most notably to yourself and your family), they will be placed under house arrest for a period of not less than six months while undergoing intensive treatment by healers and Ministry-approved Socialization training to integrate them more fully into Post-War wizarding society._

Draco felt his eyes widen at that. “Blimey!”

“What is it?” Harry demanded.

“Hold on…” He kept reading.

_This house arrest will consist of: 24-hour magical monitoring; Auror supervision; Tracing and restriction of wand usage; and regular review by DMLE personnel for progress and compliance. Length of house arrest will be contingent upon the findings of the DMLE and recommendations of St. Mungo’s staff. Any further violation of Wizengamot orders or subsequent criminal actions will result in extension of house arrest or imprisonment at the discretion of the Wizengamot._

_Please see the enclosed Healers’ report for a summary of your parents’ diagnoses and proposed treatments…_

He broke off there, laughing in disbelief, and tossed the letter over to Harry. “My parents are absolutely going to _lose it!_ ”

Harry scanned the letter, his eyes lighting with amusement as he read. “According to this, they already have! What does the Healers’ report say?”

“Who cares? We already know they’re barmy.”

He made a move to toss that over as well, but caught sight of a smaller sheet of parchment, edged in purple scrollwork, tucked in with the rest. Snatching it up, he passed the Healers’ report to Harry while he perused the note. It read:

_Dear Draco,_

_I’m sorry that I couldn’t keep your parents in St. Mungo’s ’til the baby arrived, but the healers weren’t having any of it. House arrest was our next best option. Six months should give you plenty of time to deliver your child and remove him or her from the Malfoy/Black inheritance. After that, it’s up to you and Harry to keep the Malfoys in line. I strongly recommend that you stop giving them the benefit of the doubt and report any future violations of the Wizengamot order, however minor,_ at once. _Come to me, if you’re not comfortable going to Robards or Pauncefoot. As your friend, I will be only too happy to deal with Lucius and Narcissa for you._

_My best to Harry and Felix._

_Yours,  
_ _Kingsley_

There was a lynx seal burned into the parchment just below the casual signature, telling Draco that it was genuine.

“Blimey,” he said again, as he digested the contents of this missive.

Harry glanced up from the document in his hands. “Hmm?”

“Since when does the Minister for Magic consider himself my friend and sign his letters to me ‘Kingsley’?”

“What does he have to say?”

Draco tossed the note in Harry’s direction and turned his attention to the second letter. This one was, as he’d hoped, the notice of a trial date for the Mulciber case. He felt a rush of adrenalin through his body and looked up at Harry with sparkling eyes.

“The trial is Wednesday!”

“Trial?” Harry’s brows snapped together in a frown. “What trial?”

“The Mulciber case! We’re finally going to trial, and Harry, I’m going _win this one!_ ”

The frown did not ease. The green eyes—usually brimming over with love and laughter—were dark. The mobile mouth was turned down in a scowl that would have better suited Draco than his husband.

“You’re going up in front of the Wizengamot again? Just like that?”

“Of course I am! It’s my _job_ , and I happen to be brilliant at it!”

“I know you are,” Harry sighed, his expression wilting from mulish to mournful.

“What’s the problem, then?” Draco felt a jolt of disappointment (he might even have said ‘betrayal’, if this were anyone other than Harry) and his excitement faltered. “I thought you were proud of me.”

“I am.” Harry fixed him with eyes that bled worry like tears and said, earnestly, “I _love_ that you love your job. I’m so proud _,_ so happy for you. But I’m also frightened, Draco. After all this fuss in the Press and the nasty mail we’re getting, the thought of you going out there alone makes my blood run cold.”

“I’ll only be at the Ministry,” Draco said placatingly. “What can possibly happen to me there?”

“Don’t even get me started…”

“I’ll floo in, go straight to the courtroom, and keep my head down. I promise.”

“Let me come with you.”

Draco paused at that, thinking. He wouldn’t at all mind having Harry as an escort but knew better than to let him into the courtroom. His presence would only be a distraction—to the Wizengamot, as much as to Draco himself—and would confuse the image he wanted to project of the fierce and confident barrister. And really, the same held true for his arrival at the Ministry. He wasn’t a child. He was perfectly capable of crossing the Atrium without the Savior’s hand to hold. Wasn’t it time that he stopped hiding behind Harry’s Auror-red skirts?

Finally, he shook his head. “You’re being ridiculous. My parents are under house arrest. The Minister for Magic (here he flicked his fingers at Shacklebolt’s note) has offered me his _personal_ protection. Who is there left to threaten me?”

“I don’t want to find out,” Harry said stubbornly. “Please, Draco. Let me come.”

Draco eyed him in fond exasperation.

He wanted— _oh,_ how he wanted!—to say yes and appear in the Ministry on Harry’s arm, but where would it end? Where would Harry judge him to be safe from the fury of the wizarding world? At the local Muggle McDonald’s? At his chambers in Diagon Alley? At the Burrow? In their own bed? Better to nip this trend in the bud now, before it turned into an obsession as all-consuming as any his parents could claim.

“Let me come, Papa!” Bob chimed in, his little face almost as worried as Harry’s (though he clearly had no idea what he was supposed to be worrying about).

Draco laughed reluctantly and reached over to flick an affectionate finger against his sticky cheek. “No, neither of you are coming. But if it’ll make Daddy feel better, I’ll ask Auntie Hermione to meet me in the Atrium and walk me to the courtroom.” His eyes cut over to Harry. “That way, I’ll have a friend with a functioning wand at my side.”

“I c’n do magic,” Bob insisted.

“I know you can, Urchin, but not the kind I need. Harry?” He let a hint of pleading creep into his gaze. “Are we okay?”

Harry, who had stared at him in glum silence through this little exchange, suddenly lurched to his feet. “Of course we are. Just give me a minute.”

Then he was gone, out the door and up the stairs, leaving Draco alone with a perturbed Bob, a bored Oobleck, and a heap of still-unsorted mail.

Draco sighed and resumed sifting through the envelopes, just to fill the time. Oobleck, drawn by the slither of parchment, leapt from her seat on his belly to the table top and began patting at envelopes in the hope of making them move. Bob chuckled in delight at her games.

After a minute or two, Draco unearthed yet another letter addressed to himself. It had the familiar Ministry seal on the back flap but no Wizengamot emblem on the front. Curious, he tore it open.

Inside was a single piece of heavy parchment filled with looping script in a silvery-black ink. He read the first few lines:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_When I approached you after the hearing in Courtroom Ten, you were not able to give me your attention. I hope that this letter finds you in a more receptive frame of mind…_

Skimming to the bottom of the page, he noted the signature:

_F. Forbush_

_Unspeakable_  
 _Department of Mysteries  
_ _Ministry of Magic_

“Not bloody likely,” Draco muttered.

With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he tossed the parchment into the fire, remarking to the salamander that was gazing sleepily at him, “Here, chew on that.” Then, pausing with his head cocked, he mused, “What _do_ you eat, anyway?”

The salamander just flicked its tongue at him and closed its orange-yellow eyes.

“Sa’manders eat bugs,” Bob informed him earnestly.

“Bugs don’t fly into the fire.”

“Fireflies do!”

Draco rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Who tells you these things?”

“Daddy.”

As if on cue, Harry strode into the kitchen just in time to hear Draco sigh, “Of course he does. What are you doing to our child, Potter?”

Harry plopped down on the bench at Draco’s side. “Educating him. Give me your hand.” Draco started to stretch out his left hand, and Harry chided, “Your _other_ hand.”

With another long-suffering sigh, Draco offered him his right hand, but his eyes still dwelled on the lizard basking in the fire. “What does it eat, really?”

“Fireflies.”

“No, _really._ ”

“Did you pay no attention _at all_ in Care of Magical Creatures?”

Draco felt cold metal against his skin and glanced down just in time to see Harry slide a circle of gleaming silver over his hand and onto his wrist.

“What…?” he began, even as Harry’s magic flowed over him. He tried too late to jerk his arm away, and by the time he did, the bracelet had shrunk to nothing but a bright, silver band against his skin. He held his arm up, turning it this way and that, frowning.

“Pretty-y-y,” Bob cooed. He reached out toward Draco with marmalade-smeared fingers. “C’n I see?”

Oobleck promptly began to lick his hand.

“Don’t get the cat covered in marmalade, Felix,” Harry cautioned. “It’ll never come out of her fur. And what’s she doing on the table, anyway? When are you going to teach that animal to eat from a bowl on the floor, like a normal cat, Draco?”

Draco ignored this irrelevancy, his attention still on the ornament Harry had forced on him (and not because it flattered him, though of course it did). “What is this? And how do I get it off without magic?”

“You don’t.” Offering Draco a hopeful smile, Harry lifted his own arm to display a matching silver band around his left wrist. “It’s a Tracking charm, linked to mine so I can always find you.”

Draco scowled and rubbed at the snug-fitting metal band. He could feel the magic humming in it, but with his own magic so compromised, he could not hope to control it. Not that he needed to track Harry’s whereabouts because he was not that bloody paranoid, but still, it was the principle of the thing.

Why should he wear a fucking _lead_ , while his prat of a husband went about his business unfettered?

“What if I don’t want you to find me?” he grumbled.

Harry, recognizing the inanity of this argument and sensing Draco’s (inevitable) capitulation in it, grinned at him. “Why? Are you afraid I’ll catch you with someone else’s cock up your arse?”

“Yes, because that’s _so_ likely! And such a tasteful thing to say in front of our son!”

“Says the man who taught him the word ‘fuck’.”

“Fff—” Bob began, only to be silenced by his fathers’ matching glares.

“You’re not really mad,” Harry pointed out, in his ‘I’m so reasonable and you’re such a twat’ voice, guaranteed to make Draco fume. “You’re just being difficult.”

“And you’re treating me like a pet. Or a prisoner.” A new, unpalatable thought occurred to him. “This is one of the Tracking bracelets used by the DMLE to keep tabs on prisoners, isn’t it? _Isn’t it?_ ”

Harry flushed a bright red that would have been adorable under other circumstances. At the moment, it was just one more thing that made Draco want to hex him. “Not exactly… Okay, maybe it _was,_ but it’s not anymore! I customized the charm, so it links only these two bracelets, and no one else can track us through them. I also enhanced it so I can tell how far away you are by how much the link is stretched.

“I just want to keep you _safe,_ love,” he wheedled. “That’s all this is about. And if you need to find me, you can ask Ron or Hermione to trigger the charm for you—until you have the baby and get your magic back, that is. Then you’ll have me on a lead, like a crup, and you can reel me in anytime…”

His suggestive leer made Draco long to bang his head on the table. Instead, he rubbed at the bracelet again, feeling the metal warm under his fingers, and tried to muster more arguments against his husband’s over-protective idiocy. He could only come up with one.

“I can’t go around looking like a paroled prisoner. What if my clients recognize the Tracker for what it is?”

“That’s why I put it on your right wrist. You don’t use that hand much, so the bracelet will be less noticeable. But if you’d like me to Disillusion it or disguise it as something else before you leave the house, I will.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” he grumbled.

Harry’s smile widened. “How else am I going to win an argument with you?”

Draco sighed in defeat. “You know that this is completely unnecessary, don’t you?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“All right, fine. I’ll wear your ruddy lead.” He sighed again, then threw a crooked half-smile at his visibly gloating husband. “It’s not as if I have a choice, is it?”

“Nope,” Harry chirped, radiating satisfaction like a supernova.

*** *** ***

Draco won the Mulciber case, as he had known he would. He dominated the courtroom. He humiliated the arresting Auror (a loathsome individual by the name of Crewe who fairly _begged_ to be shown up for the hateful, bigoted, self-important pillock that he was). He swept the Wizengamot away on a tide of relentless logic and dazzling eloquence. He even impressed Hermione Granger, who (at Harry’s behest, no doubt) was watching from the front row. It was a triumph. A victory for justice and equal rights under the law. A chance to perform for the most exacting and appreciative of audiences (thank you, Granger!).

The only thing that dimmed his pleasure was the presence of a certain sinister, black-robed figure high up in the benches. From down on the dungeon floor, he couldn’t see the man’s cold, blue eyes, but he felt them on him more than once. And when he escorted his dazed, bewildered client out of the courtroom, a free woman at last, the Unspeakable was standing at the top of the long, dark, dungeon stairway, watching him.

Granger’s boisterous arrival chased him away, but Draco could still feel his unwelcome presence everywhere he went. Escorting Madam Mulciber up to the DMLE offices for her formal release. Collecting Ron from Auror HQ. Flooing out of the Atrium. Casting glamours in the Leaky Cauldron before venturing out into Muggle London. Enjoying a celebratory feast of McDonald’s burgers and french fries (or just french fries in Draco’s case) with his friends. It was as if the man’s eyes were boring holes in Draco’s back. He took to absently fondling the Tracking bracelet (disguised as a jeweled bangle) that he wore and nearly dislocated his neck a few times while whipping his head around to look behind him.

He was still unsettled enough when he got home to tell Harry about it.

“Did this bloke actually say anything to you?” Harry asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Not today, but he tried to speak to me at your hearing. And he sent me a letter.”

“A letter?” The suspicion in Harry’s face deepened. “What did it say?”

Draco flushed. “I don’t know. I burned it.”

“Hmm. Did you get a name, at least?”

“Forbush.”

“That’s a place to start.”

He was on his feet, pacing, in full Auror mode and fairly crackling with authority. Draco watched him through lowered lashes, his cock stirring at the sight of all that masterful, protective power wrapped up in an incredibly sexy package. Just the way his legs and arse moved inside his trousers, the tensing and flexing of hard muscle when he strode around the room, was enough to reduce his susceptible husband to whimpering goo.

“Hermione has friends in the DoM. I’ll see what she can find out about him. It’s possible he just wants to know more about our Ancient Egyptian Fertility magic, and she can answer his questions. But until we know for sure, I think you should stay inside the wards.”

It was on the tip of Draco’s tongue to argue. Then he remembered the way the Unspeakable’s gaze seemed to drill into him, and he swallowed his protest. Instead, he decided to negotiate, like any good Slytherin.

“I’ll agree to stay home if you make it worth my while.”

“Oh?” Harry stopped pacing and turned a smiling gaze on him. “What do you suggest?”

Draco shifted restlessly in his chair, trying to ease the tightness in his pants. “Well, I accomplished a great deal today. Saved my client from unjust imprisonment and persecution at the hands of the Magical authorities. I’d say that entitles me to a celebratory fuck, wouldn’t you?”

Harry’s smile widened but turned rueful. “Felix is around here somewhere, very much awake.”

“Under your invisibility cloak?” Draco offered hopefully. He really was in trouble now, his pants unpleasantly damp and his cock twitching. Another few seconds, and he’d be begging.

“The invisibility cloak won’t keep you quiet,” Harry pointed out.

“I’ll be quiet. I’ll gag myself with a sock! _And_ I’ll stay in the house ’til you tell me it’s safe to leave! Just get the cloak, Harry. _Please_.”

“I’ll get the cloak,” his insufferable git of a husband said with mock severity, “if you promise _faithfully_ to behave yourself.”

“I promise! _Faithfully!_ ”

* * *

Draco’s promise lasted for less than a day. The next morning, over their usual chaotic breakfast, Harry handed him a letter. It was not a Ministry missive but was inscribed very formally to _Mr. Draco Potter_ and bore the address of his chambers in Diagon Alley.

Draco kept his law chambers in a small office above the warehouse attached to Weasley Wizard Wheezes (George Weasley being the only landlord in Diagon Alley willing to rent to a former Malfoy). One of Granger’s cleverer charms diverted all owls sent to that address to Grimmauld Place, so Draco could get his mail without having to visit his chambers daily or share his home address with his clients. It was a neat arrangement. But it did mean that his business letters occasionally got lost in the drift of fan- and hate-mail that piled up on their front stoop.

“I checked it for curses,” Harry assured him.

Draco tore open the envelope, extracted a single sheet of very heavy, very expensive parchment, unfolded it, and began to read. His hand fell still, fork suspended in mid-air. His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open in (extremely undignified) shock.

“Bloody hell.”

“Language, love,” Harry chided absently. He was busy trying to lure Oobleck onto the floor (where cats were supposed to eat, he insisted) with an offering of scrambled eggs. He had met with limited success so far, but never let it be said that Harry Potter gave up without a fight.

“ _Bloody hell!_ ”

That finally got Harry’s undivided attention. Setting down the saucer of eggs, he frowned over at his gobsmacked husband. “What is it?”

Draco lifted shining eyes from the parchment. “A request for a legal consultation,” he paused for dramatic effect, then added, in a tone of hushed awe, “with a _Shafiq._ ”

“What’s a Shafiq?” Bob asked.

“Who?” Harry demanded at the same time.

“Shafiq!” Another expectant pause, then, “ _Shafiq_ , Harry! Don’t you know who the Shafiqs are?”

He shrugged. “A wizarding family, yeah?”

Draco rolled his eyes in disgust. “They’re only one of the most ancient, powerful and _respected_ families in the wizarding world. Members of the Sacred Twenty-eight who managed to keep their noses clean through two wars, which means that they also managed to hold onto their money and influence in spite of their pureblood status. Harry! You git!” He reached across the table to whack his husband with the folded letter. “This is _huge!_ ”

“Let me see that.” Harry plucked the parchment from his hand and began to read.

“The Shafiqs have wealth. Connections. Solicitors to spare. If they want me, it could only mean…”

“They think you’re brilliant,” Harry finished for him.

“Papa’s brilliant,” Bob announced, as he stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“Bloody hell,” Draco breathed, his eyes going unfocused and dreamy.

“‘After witnessing your performance at the recent Potter and Mulciber hearings,’” Harry read, “‘I feel certain that you are the best person to handle this delicate matter.’ Huh. A bit on the pompous side, but he’s not wrong.”

“He thinks Papa’s brilliant,” Bob added, just in case his father had missed the point.

Harry glanced at the bottom of the page. “It’s signed Imran Shafiq. Do you know him?”

Draco shook his head. “My father used to do business with the family, and I met some of them at society events, back in the days when I was still a dutiful Malfoy. But I don’t remember an Imran.” His eyes abruptly came back into focus and lit with excitement. He swung a leg over the bench. “I’ll Owl him back and set up a meeting for tomorrow. Or maybe this afternoon, if he’s free.”

“Let me know when, and I’ll unlock the floo for his call.”

Draco froze, half off the bench, and turned appalled eyes on his husband. “Are you mad? I can’t do this with a floo-call!”

“Why not?”

“This is a _Shafiq_ , Harry! _Shafiqs_ do not have confidential meetings with their legal advisors _through the floo!_ ” Draco insisted, once more lurching into motion and levering himself to his feet. “I’ll meet him in my chambers, like a proper barrister.”

“C’n I go, too?” Bob asked.

“No, you may not. This is work.”

Bob poked out his lip in a pout and said, “I like chambers.”

“What you _like_ is Uncle George’s wretched shop.”

“ _Wheee_ -zes!”

“Yes, Wheezes.” Draco finally struggled free of the bench and started for the door. “The very last place in Magical Britain where you should be left unattended.”

“Draco, _stop!_ ”

Draco stopped. After a beat of silence, he turned to find Harry glaring mutinously at him. Crossing his arms over the top of his tummy, he struck an impatient pose, wishing he could tap his foot without losing his precarious balance.

“What.”

“You can’t go haring off to Diagon Alley. You promised _faithfully_ that you would stay inside the wards.”

“Ohhh.” Bob gave him a wide-eyed look and poked a finger into his mouth. “Papa promised _faithfully._ ”

“That was before I got the most important letter of my career! Harry, you overprotective git, there’s no reason for me to hide anymore! The secret of my pregnancy is properly out. My parents are under house arrest. I’m wearing this infernal Tracking charm of yours. What more do you want?”

“I want to be sure this Forbush character isn’t a threat.”

“What can he do to me in the middle of the day in Diagon Alley? Seriously?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.” Harry’s expression warped into something close to desperate. “Draco, you don’t even have a _wand!_ Anyone could attack you!”

There was a beat of silence, then Bob said, his voice solemn and almost tearful, “You’ll make Daddy mad. You promised faithfully.”

Draco looked from his son to his husband, turning over his options in his mind, then offered, “Why don’t you come with me?”

Harry blinked, taken aback. “Me? You’d actually let me come? You wouldn’t let me come to the trial.”

“This is different. You can’t come to the meeting, but you can escort me to the door. Then you and Bob can go visit George.”

“ _Wheezes,_ ” Bob breathed in ecstasy.

“We could make a regular outing of it,” Draco went on. “Check out the new brooms at Quality Quidditch Supply, stop in for an ice cream at Fortescue’s…”

“In November?” Harry interjected.

“When has cold weather ever stopped you from eating ice cream?”

“True. But are you sure you’re okay with this? You aren’t going to change your mind, start calling me names and insist you don’t need me?”

“Well… I’ll always call you names, but no, I’m not going to change my mind. I’d like you to come. And I _did_ promise.”

A blazing smile broke over Harry’s face. “Brilliant. Go write your letter.”

As he left the room, Draco heard Harry telling Bob, “We’ll find a really special surprise for Papa at Wheezes, little man.” He shuddered at the thought of what George Weasley might sell that Harry would consider special but didn’t turn back to investigate. He had an important letter to write, a career to kick up to the next level, and no time to rein in toddlers—or husbands with the emotional maturity of toddlers.

*** *** ***

Diagon Alley in late November was a lively place. At the leading edge of the Christmas season, stores were bright and bustling, people full of holiday cheer, no one yet possessed of the frantic exhaustion that came of fighting crowds to snatch up those last, few, essential gifts. A brisk bite in the air heralded the imminent arrival of Winter and drove chilled shoppers into the Leaky Cauldron for a restorative pint and a chance to toast their feet by the fire.

When the Potters stepped out of the floo in the taproom, they found it filled nearly to capacity with witches and wizards in varying stages of inebriation. A tide of laughter and conversation flowed around them, masking their entrance for a moment. Then someone caught sight of the famous Harry Potter, a white-blond toddler perched in his arms, and the unwelcome figure at his side.

All sound cut off, as if severed with a knife. Harry pretended not to notice, but pointedly slipped his free arm around Draco’s waist as he started for the back door. Bob peered over his father’s shoulder at the mass of faces turned on them with wide, wary eyes. A murmur of discontent rippled through the crowd, followed by a snort of laughter and a sly call of, “What’d you do to yer slag, Potter? Stuff ’im like a Christmas goose?”

“Shut it, Fletcher,” Old Tom growled from his place behind the bar.

Harry’s head snapped around at the sound of that name, and his eyes narrowed, but Draco kept walking, forcing him to follow. The denizens of the bar, emboldened by the first heckler’s success, began to talk again, their voices rising ever higher until they fairly washed the two men out the door on a wave of noise. In the back courtyard, Harry stalked up to the wall with a look of barely-repressed fury on his face.

“Who was that back there?” Draco asked in a low voice. Harry was too used to absorbing abuse for his choice in partners to react this strongly to a random insult. It had to be the source that was upsetting him.

“Mundungus Fletcher,” he spat.

“The one who looks like Healer Bulstrode?”

Now Draco wished he’d stopped to look. He’d made a point of finding pictures of Eeyore, after hearing Harry and Granger discuss Bulstrode’s resemblance to the droopy-eyed donkey, but he’d still never seen the ill-favored and unsavory Mundungus Fletcher. He only knew that Harry despised the man.

“That’s the best thing that you can say about him, the cowardly little rat!”

Harry flexed his wrist, sending his wand sliding down into his palm, and tapped out a pattern on the wall with it. The bricks began to move. Bob laughed and reached for them, but Harry sidled out of reach until they had settled into place, framing the familiar archway.

“Someday, you’re going to get your fingers caught in those,” Draco chided, “and then you’ll be sorry.”

“They _mooove!_ I c’n make ’em move!”

“I devoutly hope you’re wrong.”

Bob just laughed again, his eyes wide as saucers and starred with excitement at the view of the bustling Alley beyond the wall.

“How long ’til your meeting?” Harry asked, as they stepped through the archway.

“Ten minutes. Plenty of time to ogle broomsticks.” He slipped his hand into the crook of Harry’s elbow, grateful for the solid, protective presence at his side when he saw the mob of shoppers ahead of them. “Or maybe not. Maybe this was a mistake.” They started forward, and Draco muttered, fretfully, “Why can’t Weasley put his ruddy floo on the network?”

“He doesn’t want a direct connection to the shop. He likes walking down the alley every day and mingling with his fans.”

“Fans,” Draco snorted under his breath. “Anyone would think _he’s_ the bloody Chosen One!”

“Don’t I just wish,” Harry retorted.

They were moving through the crowd now, to the accompaniment of furtive glances and hissed remarks from all sides. Outwardly ignoring the attention they were drawing, Harry steered them toward the display window of Quality Quidditch Supply and the magnificent broomstick lying on a velvet pillow behind it. Bob, oblivious to all else when brooms were in sight, ignored the mood building in the crowd and strained eagerly forward.

As they drew near the shop, he caroled happily, “Look, Papa! _Look!_ It’s a Comet M’llenimum!”

“So it is,” Draco murmured drily.

“Closer, Daddy! I want to see!”

Harry stepped up close to the window, sidling between a group of Hogwarts-aged boys on one side and a witch with the hard-muscled frame of a serious Quidditch player on the other. Draco hung back a little, not wanting to let go of Harry but also not anxious to force his swollen self into the press of bodies. Urged on by Bob, Harry turned his attention from his husband to the precious broomstick.

“So, Malfoy, come out of hiding, then?”

The taunting voice came from just behind him. Draco whipped around and found himself nose to nose with a short, oily, smirking wizard in mustard-colored robes. The stranger held an enchanted piece of parchment with a quill poised over it. Another man, this oneclutching a camera, lurked at his shoulder.

A reporter. Just his rotten luck.

Draco’s brows snapped together in a haughty scowl, and the reporter’s smirk widened into a grin.

“When’s the big day, eh?”

“No comment,” Draco said through his teeth.

“Oh, come on, Malfoy. The whole wizarding world wants to celebrate with you and your _husband_ (he somehow managed to make the word sound filthy). If you really are up the duff, that is. Let’s just see…”

The man reached for his belly. Draco shied away, his cheeks stained with color and his lips tight with revulsion. A flashbulb popped, nearly blinding him. He collided with another body and felt an arm go round him. With an inarticulate snarl, he tried to wrench himself away, only to be blinded another flash.

“Good one, Tolly,” the reporter said.

Then Harry’s voice sounded in his ear, deflating his panic. “All right, then, love?”

“Get one of the proud parents,” the reporter urged, and the photographer lifted his camera again.

“I think you’ve got enough pictures,” Harry said. “Why don’t you just step aside and let us get on with our shopping?”

“Give us a quote, Potter. How do you really feel about raising _two_ mini-Malfoys? And if you wanted your own children so badly, why didn’t you find a nice, respectable witch to do the job for you?”

“I have nothing to say to you. _Step_ _aside_ ,” Harry said again, more fiercely.

They had quite an audience by now, as more and more passersby stopped to watch the brewing confrontation. Draco looked around for an avenue of escape but saw only a mass of staring, hostile faces hemming him in. Then, at the back of the crowd but pushing inexorably closer, he caught a flash of poison-green robes and shellacked blonde curls.

Rita Skeeter. This just kept getting better.

He squeezed Harry’s hand where it clasped his side. “We have to get out of here.”

The reporter grinned wolfishly at that and edged closer, forcing Draco to press back against Harry to avoid touching him. “What’s your hurry, Malfoy? Don’t you want to tell our readers your side of the story?”

“Skeeter’s coming,” Draco hissed to Harry, ignoring the reporter.

“We have no comment,” Harry said firmly and made a move to shove his way into the crowd, but the photographer was planted squarely in his way.

“Give us a smile, then, Potter?” the man chirped, lifting his camera.

“What about you, kid?” the reporter demanded, turning his oily grin on Bob. “What do you think about your _daddy_ turning into a _mummy?_ ”

“That’s _enough,_ ” Harry began, only to be cut off by an all too familiar hail.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Harry Potter! And darling Draco! Lovely to see you again, my dears!”

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered.

“Who’s that lady?” Bob asked doubtfully.

“My name is Rita Skeeter. And _you_ must be Felix.” She reached out one magenta-taloned finger to tickle his cheek. Bob recoiled, hiding his face in Harry’s neck. “My, my. Quite the little Malfoy prince, aren’t you? _Precious_ boy,” Skeeter cooed, at her most loathsome.

“Keep your hands off of him,” Draco snarled, his hackles rising at the sight of Skeeter touching his son.

“Careful, Draco.” The sweetness drained from her tone, leaving it all poison. “You don’t want to be making an enemy out of me. Not now when you’re in such a _delicate_ condition.”

“My condition is none of your business, and my son is off limits!”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we? Seems to me you’re forgetting who you married, not to mention whose Mark you wear on your arm. Foolish boys who sell themselves to more powerful wizards have to learn to take what they’re given.” Her eyes cut down to his prominent belly, then back up to his flushed face, brimming over with venomous amusement. “And to be properly grateful.”

“You can be as snide and hateful as you like, Skeeter,” Draco hissed, taking a threatening step toward her, “but if you dare to…”

A little hand caught at his robes, pulling him back. “Papa, no! I want to go!”

A gust of laughter swept through the watching crowd.

“Rescued by a toddler!” Skeeter mocked. “Is little Felix your savior, now?”

The camera was clicking madly, the flash firing. Harry’s voice rose in anger, shouting at the other reporter or the photographer or both—Draco didn’t know which and didn’t care. He was squared off against Skeeter, his face flaming with impotent rage, his hands balled into fists, his robes clutched tight in Bob’s grip. If he’d had a wand at that moment, he would have hexed her, but all he could do was plant himself between that evil witch and his son, and hope that she had more sense than to physically attack a pregnant person.

“I don’t need saving, Skeeter, but you might if you don’t back off.”

“Oooh, is that a _threat_ , Mr. Potter?” She _tsk-_ ed in mock concern. “And in front of all these witnesses? Shame on you!”

“ _Papaaa!_ ” Bob wailed. “I want to go! I don’t like the scary lady!”

“Now, now, don’t be scared of Rita,” she cooed, reaching out to caress his cheek with her wicked, magenta nail. “She’d never hurt a lovely boy like you.”

Bob cringed away from her, flinging both arms around Harry’s neck, even as Draco started for her again. But before he had taken more than a step, there was a loud _pop_ , a discharge of magic, and a puff of smoke that enveloped Skeeter’s poison-green form.

Once again, Draco came to an abrupt halt. The entire crowd, startled by the unexpected magic, broke off their chattering and turned to stare. Harry’s hand closed on Draco’s arm, and his voice whispered in his ear,

“What did you do?”

Draco just shook his head, staring wide-eyed at the vision that emerged from the smoke. It was Rita Skeeter still. There was no denying that. But perched precariously on her head in place of her lacquered bronze curls was an enormous… live… _duckling_?

Under the stunned eyes of every shopper in Diagon Alley, it turned its fluffy head in Draco’s direction and _peeped._ Then it flipped its fluffy, down-covered wings and wriggled into a more comfortable position on Skeeter’s bald head. One webbed foot scrabbled at her scalp for purchase, then slipped down to catch the earpiece of her signature winged eyeglasses. They twisted wildly askew.

“Ouch! Here, now!” Skeeter reached up to bat away the scrabbling foot. “What’s going on? What are you all staring at?”

“What _is it?_ ” the photographer asked dazedly.

“Get a picture!” the reporter urged. “For Merlin’s sake, _get a picture!_ ”

That was the signal for everyone to start laughing and talking at once, while Skeeter set up an unholy screech and tugged uselessly at the oversized bird that seemed to be glued to her head.

“ _Get it off me! Get it… Ack!! You’ll pay for this, Malfoy! You can’t treat Rita Skeeter like this!_ ”

Harry got an arm around Draco’s shoulders and steered him through the crowd, ignoring Skeeter’s screams of, “ _Come back here, Potter! Get this wretched thing off me!_ ”

As they stepped clear of the mob (all of whom were far too interested in Skeeter’s attempts to rid herself of her duckling headgear to notice the Potters’ escape), Harry said to boy in his arms, “What did you do, young man?”

“I stopped the scary lady from hurting Papa,” Bob announced. His little face was flushed and his eyes sparkling with a heated mixture of anger and triumph. Draco thought he looked remarkably like Harry in that moment—a regular little Gryffindor hero—and he wanted to cheer his intrepid son.

“She wasn’t going to hurt him,” Harry scolded.

“She was scary an’ Papa was mad so I made her stop. Just like before.” He set his jaw mulishly. “You said it was okay if I do magic to protect Papa.”

“You did say that, Harry,” Draco reminded him, his voice trembling on the verge of laughter.

Harry sighed. “Yes, I did, and I already live to regret it.”

“It was only a d-duckling…” he hiccuped, as hilarity threatened to overwhelm him.

“It was accidental magic, in the middle of Diagon Alley, by a _three-year-old!_ ”

“It w-wasn’t… accidental!” With that, Draco collapsed against the wall of Flourish and Blots, clutching his sides, laughing ’til tears ran down his cheeks.

“Stop it,” Harry said severely. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

Bob shrieked happily and clapped his hands. “Papa thinks it’s funny.”

“Papa has lost his mind. Come on, Draco. Pull yourself together.”

“A duckling!” Draco gulped between paroxysms. “A _duckling!_ On her- her _head!_ Did you see her f-face… when it s-stepped on her _glasses?!_ ”

“Oh, for Fuck’s sake,” Harry sighed, then shot a guilty look at Bob’s beaming face. His own lips twitched into a fond, rueful smile. “It was pretty funny. But it was still very naughty of you, Felix. Papa wasn’t in any danger, so you had no business doing magic like that.”

“M-my hero!” Draco gasped.

“Honestly. Do you plan to show up at this all-important meeting with red eyes and a runny nose?”

“No.” Draco took a gulping breath, swallowed the last of his laughter, and mopped his eyes with his sleeve. “My adoring and very powerful husband is going to mend my face for me.”

“Not if you don’t stop encouraging your precocious brat of a son to misbehave. Show me the damage.”

Draco obediently lifted his face for Harry’s inspection. At the touch of those earnest, green eyes, he felt his cheeks flush afresh (with pleasure this time, instead of anger) and his lips soften into a seductive smile.

“None of that, either,” Harry chided. He held out a handkerchief. “Here. Blow your nose.”

Draco obeyed, blowing his nose thoroughly and dabbing at his eyes. Luckily, he had not chosen to wear makeup today, so he wouldn’t have to trust Harry’s ham-handed efforts to repair it, but he was certain that he looked a fright. Obedient to Harry’s touch on his chin, he tilted his head up still further and closed his eyes.

Magic brushed his skin.

After a moment, his lashes fluttered up again, and he looked up to meet Harry’s rapt gaze.

“Beautiful.”

“I’d better get moving, then. I’m already late.”

Tucking Draco’s hand into the crook of his arm, Harry turned down the twisting alley, heading for the towering purple beacon that was Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. There was still a substantial crowd, and many of the people they passed stopped to stare or throw remarks at them, but the reporters seemed to have abandoned the chase after Rita’s mishap. They reached the front of the shop without further trouble.

There, they turned to the left and moved up to a narrow, green door tucked in between the blazing purple storefront and the dark, featureless, two-storey building beside it. It had no bell or knocker, just a small brass plaque that read: _Draco Potter, Barrister. Please enter_.

“I’ll come find you in the shop when I’m finished,” Draco said. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“Take as long as you need. We’ll amuse ourselves.” Harry bent to kiss him. “Go be brilliant.”

Draco threw him a warm look through his lashes. “Always. Behave yourself for Daddy, Urchin.” Then he opened the door and stepped into the tiny hallway beyond.

Two strides brought him to the foot of a steep, narrow stairway lit by electric lamps (Draco hated electric lamps, but this was George Weasley’s building, and he loved them; besides, Draco didn’t have any magic with which to light candles). He trod carefully up the stairs, one hand on the wall for balance and the other fingering the old, brass key in his pocket (another thing he didn’t have the magic for was unlocking doors). At the top was a landing slightly bigger than a Muggle postage stamp, with two doors opening off of it. The one directly ahead bore a replica of the plaque downstairs. And standing to one side of it was a wizard in long, sweeping, burgundy robes.

Draco paused to catch his breath. The man stepped forward into the light. Draco saw that he was young—in his mid-thirties at most—with jet black hair, black eyes, and a handsomely chiseled face. He smiled, showing a flash of white teeth.

“Mr. Potter?”

“Yes. I apologize for my lateness. I ran into a bit of trouble outside.”

“Not a problem. Diagon Alley can be a bit hazardous for a man as recognizable as you, I expect.” He smiled again and extended his hand. “Imran Shafiq.”

Draco took the offered hand. “It’s a pleasure to m—”

The other man moved in a blur of speed, his left hand coming up to snap something cold and hard around Draco’s exposed wrist. Draco froze, staring down in shock at the black metal cuff that now covered the Tracking bracelet he wore, then a wave of vertigo hit him. His stomach heaved. His head swam. He wavered and started to crumple to his knees, only to feel Shafiq’s hand under his elbow, holding him up.

“What… what have you done?” he managed, even as his tongue seemed to thicken and go numb.

“Just blocked your magic.”

“No.” Panic blossomed in him, making his heart thud painfully against his ribs. He struggled to take an even breath, to regain control, but the vertigo was getting worse. Blotches swam before his eyes and obscured his vision. He sagged in Shafiq’s grip. “You can’t… I need… need it…”

“Relax, Mr. Potter. You and your baby are perfectly safe.”

Fingers tightened on Draco’s arm. The man began to turn on his heel. Draco realized what was happening and jerked back, gasping, “ _No!_ ” even as Shafiq pulled him into the crushing darkness.

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * bête noire literally translates as ‘black beast’ but it also means ‘anathema’, ‘bugbear’, or ‘the bane of one’s existence’. Draco is playing with both meanings.
> 
> Sorry for the cliffhanger, but it was necessary! Trust me! I'll get the next chapter out as quickly as possible (always assuming that the Apple repair people don't take my computer away).


	7. Unspeakable Horrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for leaving you hanging off a cliff for so long! Blame my computer. I spent days in IT hell, which totally threw me off my stride and made it difficult to get back into the story.
> 
> Anyway, here we are with a bit of Bob, a bit more of Lucius and Narcissa, a taste of the Golden Trio, and a whole lot of angst! I hope you enjoy it!

“Daddy?” A little hand tugged at Harry’s robes. “Daddy?”

Harry looked up to find his son standing at his knee, regarding him with wide, intent eyes. The boy clutched what appeared to be a Gobstone in one hand and was slimed from hairline to toes with purple goo. Harry’s robes now bore a sticky purple handprint, as well.

“Merlin!” Tossing aside his magazine, Harry eyed Felix in some dismay. “What happened to you?”

Felix held out the Gobstone. “Uncle George gave it to me.”

“Of course he did. Does that stuff wash off?”

“With soap and water or a decent _Scourgify_ ,” George assured him, from where he lounged in the office doorway, grinning.

“It’s yummy,” Felix informed him. “Purple is my fav’rite.”

“Purple is a flavor, now?”

“Black currant,” George supplied. “If you prefer orange, cherry, pineapple or kiwi-lime, I have those, too. There’s also the gourmet line, with black truffle, pâté de foie gras, duck confit, brandied cherry…”

“Brilliant. But my son is covered in black currant-flavored… whatever that is.”

“Oobleck!” Felix chirped happily.

“You should feel privileged to know that he’s Beta testing my next best-seller.”

Harry snorted at that and swept the boy with a quick _Scourgify._ He was pleased to see the purple peel away. You never knew for sure, with George’s inventions. He’d tell you that they were perfectly innocent, then you’d find yourself covered in boils, bald as an egg, or dyed unnatural colors.

“Told you,” George mocked gently at Harry’s relieved smile.

“Daddy.” Felix tugged at Harry’s robes again. “I want ice cream.”

Harry plucked the slimy Gobstone from his hand and dropped it in a dish on the coffee table, then hit his palm with another cleaning charm. “When Papa gets here.”

“When’s that?”

“I don’t know, little man. He’s working.”

Felix poked out his lip. “I want him now.”

“You know we can’t interrupt his meeting. I warned you about that when you asked to come.”

“But it’s been _forever_.”

“Has it?” Harry smothered a smile and pulled his watch from his pocket. A glance at the dial, and his brows snapped together in a frown.

Felix wasn’t far wrong. Thanks to George’s willingness to amuse his nephew and his inexhaustible supply of dangerous toys, Harry had not registered the passage of time, but Draco had been gone for nearly two hours. This wasn’t necessarily a problem. Legal consultations could drag on endlessly, as Harry had every reason to know. But Draco wouldn’t forget that his son was waiting for him.

Smoothing out his expression before Felix picked up on his worry, Harry tucked his watch away and fixed his son with a smile. “Tell you what. I’ll just check to make sure he’s still in chambers and not wandering around Diagon Alley looking for us.”

“We can’t int’rupt,” Felix reminded him solemnly.

“I have a way that won’t disturb him if he’s busy.” Harry pushed up the sleeve on his left arm to reveal the Tracking bracelet he wore. “You remember when I gave Papa one of these?”

He nodded. “At brekkies.”

“Right. Well, they’re linked by magic. When I trigger the spell, it’ll make a green line in the air, tying me to Papa. So, if he’s in chambers where he’s supposed to be,” Harry twisted around to point at the blank wall to his left, “the line will go that way, through the wall, and into the next building.”

“C’n I see the line?”

“If I charm it so you can.”

“C’n Papa see it?”

“No. But he might be able to feel my magic reaching out to him.”

“Maybe he’ll come when he feels it.”

“Maybe. Shall we try it?”

Felix nodded eagerly.

Drawing his wand (as much for the dramatic effect of it as out of necessity, Harry admitted to himself), he brandished it. A light tap on the silver band, a tiny discharge of magic, and… nothing. No glowing line in the air. No awareness of magic at the far end of the link. No link at all. Just nothing.

“Where’s the line?” Felix asked.

Harry stared down at the bracelet on his wrist, his heart suddenly pounding and his body cold. He cast the charm again and again, with the same shattering result. Felix gazed anxiously up at him. George watched, frowning, from the doorway. But Harry could not look at them or think about their distress. Only one thing mattered now.

Draco was gone. The link was cut. The bracelet had been destroyed or the charm blocked by some stronger magic. Either way, Draco was gone, and Harry had no way to find him.

“Daddy?”

As gently as he could manage when every cell in his body was screaming at him to _move_ , Harry set the boy to one side. Then he got to his feet. “Look after him, would you, George?”

George stepped swiftly over to Felix and bent to scoop him up in his arms. “You going to find Malfoy?”

“Yeah. If I’m not back soon, take him to the Burrow or home with you. Whatever works. Just try to keep him calm and watch out for his magic! He’s way stronger than you think!”

“No! Daddy!” Felix began to squirm, struggling to free himself from George’s grasp. “I want to come! I want _Papa!_ ”

“Behave for Uncle George, little man.”

“Daddy! _Daddy!_ ”

Felix’s frantic scream was the last thing Harry heard, as he apparated away.

A bare second later, he appeared on the Aubusson carpet in Draco’s law chambers. The room was utterly silent. Peaceful. Lit only by the winter sunlight from the magical windows that filled one wall with a view of Diagon Alley. One glance around the room—at the books perfectly lined up on their shelves, the leather chairs pushed in neatly against the magnificent Chippendale desk, the pristine white candles with untouched wicks—told him that no one had been here for some time. A slice of his wand, a wash of forensic spells, and his magic confirmed it.

Draco had not set foot in this room today.

Maddened by rage and fear, Harry lunged for the door. It was locked. His magic fairly blasted it open, and he was out on the landing. The long, steep stairway yawned in front of him, and for a hideous moment, he was afraid to look down it. Afraid that he’d see Draco’s broken body lying on the floor below. Then he gathered his Gryffindor courage and peered over the edge.

Nothing.

The breath sobbed in his lungs as relief hit him like a Killing Curse. Draco had not died here in the stairwell. His husband and his baby were still alive (he had to believe that if he wanted to preserve his sanity), which meant that he could still find them and bring them home. But he couldn’t use the Tracking charm to do it, which meant that he had no bloody idea where to look.

Or, did he? Was there really any question about who was to blame?

Without stopping to consider what he was doing, Harry gripped his wand tightly and turned on the spot, disapparating with a _crack._

He appeared in the narrow country lane just as the sun was sinking into the trees to the West. Its last rays threw deep shadows across the ground, lit the very top of the towering yew hedge, and gilded the wrought-iron bars of the gate directly in front of him. Behind the gate, a long graveled drive curved up to where the silhouetted bulk of a large, Medieval Manor crouched like a slumbering beast in the gathering dusk. Light gleamed in a few distant windows, betraying that the great house was not completely deserted, and a pair of white peacocks drifted in ghostly splendour across the lawn.

Oblivious to the gracious, old-world beauty before him, Harry slammed both palms flat against the ornate coat of arms worked into the center of the gates and shouted, “This is Harry Potter! Open up!”

The gates shuddered but did not open. Grabbing the bars, Harry gave them a furious shake.

“This is _Auror_ Potter,” he bellowed, “here on urgent business! Open these gates before I _blast them open!_ ”

When nothing happened, Harry stepped back with a growl and lowered his wand to point at the coat of arms. In the same instant that he formed the necessary spell in his mind, he heard the _crack_ of apparition, and two red-robed figures appeared on the drive just inside the gates. He paid the new arrivals no mind, but let loose the terrifying power building in him with all his rage and fear behind it. Magic seared from his wand, slammed into the gates, and lit the wards enclosing them on fire.

“Potter! Potter!” came a distant cry, nearly drowned out by the storm of magic all around him. “What are you doing?!”

One of the Aurors managed to fire off an answering spell that held Harry’s back for a heartbeat. Then his irresistible power overwhelmed it. The gates exploded inward. The wards tore open like a paper sack, burning crimson and gold as they died. Someone screamed a warning, and the two Aurors stumbled back with their arms raised to shield their faces.

Harry stood like an avenging angel at the center of the firestorm, his wand up and his face set, waiting only for the moment that his path was clear, then he started up the drive at a dead run.

“Fuck! Potter!” one of the Aurors gasped. He tried to catch at Harry’s arm as he went by but missed by more than a foot, too floored by what he’d just seen to operate his limbs properly.

His partner—the one who’d tried to contest Harry’s entrance—seemed to collect herself more quickly. She jumped directly in front of Harry to block his path, her wand up, only to find herself shoved unceremoniously out of the way. Thrown off balance, she tripped over a neat border of shrubs, only narrowly avoided stepping on the tail of an angry peacock, and landed on her bum on the grass.

“Not another step, Potter!” she shrieked. “You’re under arrest!”

Harry, by this time, had reached the top of the drive and mounted the shallow steps to the front doors in a single bound. He paused only long enough to call, “Later!” over his shoulder, then he lifted the heavy, silver, snake-shaped knocker. Before he could drop it, the imposing doors swung silently open. A tiny, round, bug-eyed face peered up at him from somewhere down by his knees.

“The Master and Mistress is happy to welcome Harry Potter to their home,” the house-elf squeaked.

“I’ll just bet they are,” Harry muttered, but he did not shove rudely past the elf, as he had the Aurors. Sure as he was that the creature would do anything its masters asked—including try to break into his house or kidnap his husband—he couldn’t blame it. And (thanks to years of conditioning by Hermione, on top of his own ingrained reluctance to hurt those weaker than himself) he couldn’t treat it cruelly, no matter how enraged he was. So he waited until the elf had stepped back before moving into the huge, dark, cold and echoing hall.

By this time, the Aurors had caught him up and crowded into the entry hall on his heels. They were babbling about DMLE regulations, the cost of wantonly destroying wards, the grim fate that awaited him when Robards learned of his misdeeds, but neither Harry nor the elf paid them any heed. The elf bowed respectfully to Harry and gestured toward an inner door to his right.

“If Harry Potter will come this way?”

Feeling faintly as if he’d stumbled into a dream (or a farce), Harry let the elf lead him across the stone-flagged floor toward the indicated door. It opened, as the the front door had before it, without so much as a creak of its massive hinges to expose a room as grand and formal as the entryway, if a bit less dour. It had lush tapestries and gracious portraits on the walls, instead of banners and ancient weaponry. The cold stone floor was covered with fabulously expensive rugs. And the antique furniture looked as if you could actually sit on it without damaging something vital. But the most notable difference was the blaze burning merrily in the ornate fireplace at the opposite end of the room.

His in-laws were positioned in front of the fire—Lucius standing, Narcissa arrayed regally in an armchair—holding snifters of brandy. They glanced up at his entrance, and Harry thought that they both looked rather haggard in the firelight. Not at all like their usual sleek, superior selves.

Narcissa set her snifter on a table at her elbow and rose gracefully to her feet. “Good evening, Mr. Potter. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Harry slammed the door in the Aurors’ faces and (without a word or a glance at his target) cast a Locking spell. A chorus of shouts, threats and banging instantly broke out behind him.

“Where’s Draco?” he demanded, as he stalked up to Narcissa, still clutching his wand so tightly that his knuckles whitened. “What have you done with him?”

Narcissa’s brows arched up in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“ _Where is Draco?!_ ” Harry snarled, raising his wand.

Lucius abruptly stepped between Harry and his wife. “What are you going to do, Potter? Murder us where we stand?”

Harry bared his teeth in grimace of pure rage. “Don’t tempt me.”

“We can’t stop you.” He lifted and spread his hands, a disdainful sneer curling his lips. “Our wands are virtually useless, and any attempt to defend ourselves against the blessed Savior will surely land us in Azkaban, so have at it.”

“No more games, Lucius.” Harry’s wand came up to point directly between the other man’s silver-white brows. “Tell me what you’ve done with Draco, or so help me…”

“We’ve done nothing.” Narcissa forcibly moved her husband aside so that she was the one confronting the threat of Harry’s wand. “We have no idea where he is.”

“ _Don’t fucking lie to me!_ ”

“I am not lying, Harry.”

Her firm, cool certainty shook him. He knew she could not be trusted. Knew she and Lucius were the obvious suspects. Knew the flawless mask of her face could hide a wealth of treachery and malice. But her blue eyes were wide and guileless, frank, unflinching, even (dared he think it?) _pleading._ And Harry found himself powerless to withstand them.

His wand hand fell. His voice shook with a rage he could not unleash as he so longed to do. “If you’ve hurt him or the baby, I will kill you.”

“We haven’t seen Draco since the hearing,” Narcissa said earnestly. “We assumed that he was safe at home with you and Felix. If he is not…”

“What’s happened to our son?” Lucius rasped out, his voice raw and strained and utterly devoid of its usual reptilian smoothness.

Harry had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could answer. “He’s been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” A sneer curled Lucius’ lips. “And the _Chosen One_ couldn’t protect him?”

Harry’s anger surged up again, hot and bright, burning away his uncertainty. Rounding on Lucius he snarled, “I know you did this! _I know it!_ And I’ll see that you rot in Azkaban for it!”

“We _didn’t!_ ” Narcissa insisted. “If you don’t believe us, ask our Auror watchdogs! They follow our every move, search our mail, limit our magic…”

“You still have _friends!_ Other cold-hearted, obsessive bastards willing to do your dirty-work for you!”

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a baffled look, then Lucius demanded, “What friends?”

“The Shafiqs.”

Lucius arched a brow at that (just like Draco, Harry thought, with a pang). “We’ve had no dealings with the Shafiq family since before the war.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re purebloods, aren’t they? Your lot always stick together.”

“Your prejudice is showing, Potter. The fact that they are an ancient, pureblood family does not make them friends or even allies. They have preserved their place in the wizarding world by cutting ties with the likes of us.” He lifted his chin regally and added, “We would not demean ourselves by asking for their help, and they would not deign to give it.”

Harry opened his mouth to snarl a retort, but Narcissa forestalled him.

“Enough!” she cut in fiercely. “We don’t have time for this adolescent posturing! Draco and his child are in danger!”

From the anxious edge in her voice, one would almost think she cared. Almost. But this was Narcissa Sodding Malfoy, Harry reminded himself, the woman who’d hired a Veela to rape her son so her precious family name would not die out.

Turning a hard, accusing glare on her, Harry said through his teeth, “Too bad you didn’t think of that _before_ you kidnapped him.”

“We _did not kidnap him!_ How can I convince you of that?!”

“You can’t.”

“Harry!” He started to raise his wand again (to do what, he had no very clear idea), but she caught his arm in surprisingly strong fingers. “Stop! _Listen to me!_ ”

He froze for a moment, then lowered his arm. Narcissa did not let go of him, but her grip softened into a clinging, pleading clasp. At the same time, her tone went from commanding to cajoling.

“Draco needs you. We accept that now. We also understand why your first impulse when he disappeared was to blame us. But every minute you spend here with us is another minute that you aren’t looking for your husband, another minute that Draco is suffering, maybe losing his child, maybe dying. Please, Harry, _please_ ,” her hand tightened on his arm once more, “don’t let your distrust of us cost Draco and his baby their lives!”

Harry knew exactly what she was doing, but he couldn’t help feeling a tug of sympathy at the sound of that caressing voice. He stared hard into her upturned face, searching for a trace of deceit. He saw only genuine concern and a hint of tears sparkling in her golden lashes.

“What can I do to prove our innocence?” she urged. “Drink Veritaserum? Show you my memories? Open my mind to you? _What?_ ”

Harry stood stock still for another handful of seconds, turning over her words, while Narcissa watched him with wide, guileless eyes.

When he didn’t speak, she gave his arm a little shake. “Look in my mind, Harry. See for yourself.”

Another long beat, while Harry studied her face and considered her offer, then he shook his head. “Not you.” Abruptly whirling on Lucius, he snapped his wand up and growled, “ _Legilimens!_ ”

Harry had always been pants at Legilimency. He hated the thought of blundering around in other people’s heads and shied away from using his overwhelming power in such an invasive way. But, as with pretty much every other Magical discipline ever invented, when the need arose, he found a way. So when he pointed his wand at Lucius Malfoy, spoke the incantation, and let his power loose, there was no way that the other man could possibly resist him.

His spell caught Lucius entirely by surprise. One moment, Harry was standing in the Malfoys’ over-decorated salon. The next, he was inside Lucius’ head, striding freely through scattered memories, peering into cluttered corners and tearing open unlocked doors. The mind he ransacked with so little effort or compunction was (he could think of no better word for it) _shabby_. It had no order to it, no shields in place, no sense of a controlling power or presence resisting Harry’s intrusion (which was why he’d chosen Lucius, rather than Narcissa for this exercise; she was a far more formidable Occlumens than her husband would ever be and perfectly capable of tricking an unsubtle Legilimens like Harry). In fact, the overriding emotion he felt, as he viewed the world through Lucius Malfoy’s eyes, was defeat.

The man was tired. Broken. Bitter. _Done._

And he had no idea where Draco was, that much was clear. All his recent memories were of the Manor’s many rooms, looking both unnaturally beautiful and depressingly empty to his eyes. He had seen no one but Narcissa, a few house-elves, and his Auror guards since his return from St. Mungo’s.

Harry took one last look around him, fighting the urge to feel sorry for Lucius Malfoy, then pulled back into the comfort of his own head. Even furious and frantic as he was, his own mind was a much nicer place than Lucius’. At least his thoughts of Draco were warm and colorful and full of life, not cold, distant images of a boy who had not existed in years (if he had ever really existed at all).

Lucius gazed at him with those grey eyes—so like Draco’s, and yet so different—and Harry knew what he was seeing. His enemy. His vanquisher. The man who had stolen everything from him and left him here in this empty, colorless world.

Again, Harry had to fight down a surge of pity. He looked away from Lucius, only to find himself staring down Narcissa again.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked.

Harry hesitated, wondering how likely it was that she had arranged Draco’s kidnapping without her husband’s knowledge, then gave a curt nod.

“Then go find my son, before something dreadful happens to him.”

Harry didn’t bother to answer. He felt certain that Draco wasn’t here, that Narcissa had no more idea than Lucius did where he was, and that Harry himself was well and truly fucked. With a lump of defeat in his stomach that sat as heavy as lead, he turned away from the Malfoys’ haunted gazes and reached out with his magic to feel for the wards. They were gone. The Aurors outside were apparently no more capable of rebuilding wards than they were of breaking Harry’s Locking spell.

Harry felt a momentary impulse to apparate away without removing the spell, thus trapping his in-laws in the room until someone with a little more on the ball showed up to rescue them. But that was petty and beneath him. They hadn’t hurt Draco—this time—and their current plight was grim enough to satisfy even Harry’s sense of justice.

With a casual thought, Harry banished the spell. Then, still not vouchsafing the Malfoys so much as a glance, he spun on his heel and stepped into the waiting darkness.

* * *

Draco prowled the tiny space, crossing from plaster wall to transparent Shield charm in a few strides, pausing now and then to clutch at his belly when the baby gave a spasmodic kick, then resuming his restless pacing. The cell—for it could hardly be called anything else—contained only a narrow bed (reasonably comfortable), a single straight-backed chair (not even remotely comfortable), and a table just about big enough to hold a cup of tea. Two of its walls were made of pale and faintly grubby plaster, two formed by the Shield charm, with a larger room not quite visible beyond the glimmering spell. The light in the cell was just enough brighter than the rest of the room to ensure that anyone watching Draco through the transparent walls would be able to see him much better than he could them.

It felt remarkably like a zoo exhibit, and the longer Draco circled it, the more like a caged beast he felt.

Just where this zoo exhibit might be, he had no idea. He had been only semi-conscious when his abductor carried him into the cell (rendered senseless by the pain of apparating at seven months pregnant) and wholly incapable of absorbing his surroundings. Shafiq had dumped him on the bed and left him without a word. No one had come near him since.

That had been… what? Two hours ago? Three? He could not tell for certain. It felt like an eternity, every minute another agonizing step closer to the loss of his child.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, the baby twitched. Draco halted, bracing one hand on the back of the chair and stroking his belly with the other. The baby was in terrible distress. Draco could feel it in the way he moved, the frantic flailing of tiny limbs, followed by frightening minutes of grim stillness. Without Draco’s magic to sustain him, he could not endure for much longer.

A cramp hit Draco, and he doubled over in pain, the breath hissing through his teeth. As it eased, he felt the baby push weakly against the womb that imprisoned it, and his breath turned to a sob. Dropping into the chair, he clutched at the metal cuff circling his wrist. His eyes blurred with angry tears as he glared down at the thing that was blocking his magic and killing his baby.

He had tried several times to remove it. Cracked it repeatedly against the edge of the table. Torn at it with his nails. Even attacked it with his teeth (which, predictably, had done far more damage to his teeth than to the cuff). As a result, his forearm and wrist were bruised, gouged and bloody. The nails of his left hand were broken and clogged with bits of his own flesh. But the cuff itself showed not a scratch.

With another strangled sob, he pulled the abused arm into his chest and held it there, eyes closed, teeth gritted. The baby gave a spasmodic jerk, weaker than the last, reaching out to its father for help in the only way it could. Draco began to rock forward and back, muttering useless, comforting words to his suffering child.

“He’s coming, I promise… Daddy’s coming… Just hold on a little longer… Hold on… I know you can do it…”

The sound of footsteps on the tiled floor cut off Draco’s litany and brought him up out of his chair as if it were spring-loaded. He swiped an arm across his eyes, dashing away his tears. Then he stiffened his spine, lifted his head at an arrogant angle, and prepared to confront whatever was coming for him.

A shadow moved in the dimness beyond his cell. The silhouette of a tall figure in sweeping robes appeared just outside the Shield charm. The charm itself rippled, and a door opened in it. Draco braced himself, gripping the back of his chair hard for reassurance and balance. Then a man stepped into his cell, a tray full of dishes and potion bottles floating just behind him.

Draco’s mouth sagged open in disbelief. “ _You!_ ”

The man smiled, but his blue eyes remained cold. “Indeed.”

“You… you… _bastard!_ ” Draco started toward him, forgetting for the moment that he was unarmed, pregnant, and robbed of his magic. His hands came up, fingers crooked into claws, and his lips drew back in a snarl of rage. “You filthy, fucking _bastard!_ ”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter. Remember your delicate condition.” As he spoke, the man flicked his wand at the Shield charm, sealing it at his back. Then he turned his wand on Draco and added, with entirely false solicitude, “You wouldn’t want any harm to come to your child.”

Draco halted in his tracks, the point of the wand only an inch or two from his breastbone. He drew in a ragged, furious breath and hissed, “You’re _killing_ my child!”

“Nonsense.” The man sent his tray sailing over to settle on the table, still talking in that maddeningly reasonable, caring way that made Draco long to throttle him. “The entire point of this exercise is to study a _successful_ wizard pregnancy. I took great pains to familiarize myself with Ms. Granger’s findings, to prepare the necessary potions and learn the spells, before I brought you here, and I have every confidence in my skills. You and your child are quite safe.”

“We’re not _safe,_ you stupid, arrogant…” Draco spun away to hide his frustrated tears from the other man, fighting for some kind of control, even as a scream of pure rage tried to claw its way out of his chest and burst his ribs asunder.

“Sit down, Mr. Potter. Or may I call you Draco? My name is Forbush.”

Draco ignored this, saying in a suffocated voice, while still refusing to look at the other man, “You think this is about a few spells and potions? That you can master it by reading a scroll? You have _no bloody idea_ what you’re doing!”

“I’m opening up an entirely new field of Magical research, one that will change our world.”

“ _You’re killing Harry Potter’s child!_ ” Draco turned blazing, tear-bright eyes on his tormentor and thrust out his right arm. His sleeve hiked up to expose the black metal cuff and bloody gouges in his skin. “This _thing_ is blocking my magic!”

Forbush caught him by the elbow, frowning down at the damage he’d done to himself. “Yes, but it’s quite harmless, I assure you.”

“Not to the baby! He needs my magic to survive!”

“He needs your husband’s magic, or so you testified in court. I can supply that.”

“ _Both!_ ” Draco snarled, tearing his arm free of the Unspeakable’s grasp. “He needs _both!_ ”

“This hysteria is not good for you or the child.”

“ _Hysteria?!_ ” Draco demanded incredulously.

Forbush went on, unmoved by his interruption, “If you can’t control yourself, I’ll have to administer a Calming draught.”

“You bloody _,_ fucking _imbecile!_ ”

In a sudden burst of blind rage, Draco swiped his arm across the tray, sending its contents crashing to the floor in a mess of shattered glass, spilled potions and globs of what looked like shepherd’s pie.

“I don’t need a fucking Calming draught! I need my magic! _Now!_ ”

Forbush shook his head and _tsked_ in disapproval at the wreckage around them.

Draco faced him, fists clenched, trembling with fury and panic, desperate to get through to him before it was too late. “The baby’s dying… getting weaker by the minute. I can _feel_ it!”

Another cramp gripped him, and he doubled over in pain, gasping for breath. Forbush made to catch his arm, but Draco jerked away from him and stumbled over to the bed. As he sank down onto the edge of the mattress, he felt the baby flail weakly. Wrapping both arms around his belly, he hunched over it protectively and began to rock in mindless pain and regret.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I’m sorry! I can’t save him! I can’t… Oh, Merlin…” Another, more terrible cramp hit, and he cried out, “ _Ahhh! Harry!_ ”

An unexpected spell struck him—cold and alien, like the man who cast it—and dragged Draco’s head up in spite of his torment. Through a glaze of tears, he saw Forbush standing over him with a wand in his hand. The Unspeakable frowned.

“The baby’s life signs are fading.”

“I told you.” He dropped his head again, unable to look his baby’s killer in the face or summon his usual defiance.

A hand fastened on his right wrist and pried his arm away from his body. Fingers touched the bruised gash he’d torn in his flesh with the sharp metal edge of the cuff, then circled the cuff itself in a light clasp. Still, Draco refused to look, just sat drooping over his enormous tummy and the precious baby dying inside it.

“I can unblock your magic.”

Draco’s head snapped up.

“But do not mistake that for an invitation to violence, resistance or further displays of temper. I will not tolerate any disruption of my research, and I will physically restrain you, if necessary. Do you understand me, Draco?”

“Just take it off!” Draco choked out.

“I don’t want to use force. I would prefer your willing cooperation. But one way or the other, you _will_ accept my magic and my care, no matter how unwelcome you find them.”

“Just _take it off!_ ”

There was a beat of silence—an endless time that stretched Draco’s nerves on the rack and almost made him scream in frustration—then Forbush tapped his wand on the metal cuff, and it sprang open.

Warmth rushed through Draco’s body. Power surged in his veins. Magic sparked in his fingertips. And, in the fraction of a second that he was a wizard again, before the baby drank up all his magic, Draco sent a frantic pulse of power into the Tracking charm that was once more visible on his wrist. A cry for help that only Harry could hear.

In the next breath, every drop of magic in his body rushed to its center where the baby lay waiting for it, and Draco Potter was a Squib once more. He groaned in something close to ecstasy. Then he toppled over to lie on the bed, curled protectively round his tremendous belly, and shut his eyes to block out the entirely unwelcome sight of the Unspeakable’s granitic face.

Forbush still gripped his right arm, glaring suspiciously at the silver band of the Tracking charm adorning it. “What’s this?”

“What’s it look like?” Draco muttered into his pillow. Relief and the return—however brief—of his magic made him giddy. He felt the baby kick (a proper, bruising blow to his kidneys this time) and laughed aloud.

“It _looks_ like a Ministry-issue Tracking charm, but who would be tracking you?”

Draco laughed again. “Harry, of course. And when he gets here, he’s going to rip your fucking head off.”

“Hmmph.” Forbush whacked the charm with his wand. Nothing happened. “What’s he done to it?”

“What Harry does to everything. Make it better.”

He tried again and again, muttering various spells that Draco assumed were supposed to remove or deactivate the charm. None of them worked. Finally he picked up the abandoned cuff and made to slip it back on Draco’s wrist.

“This will block it.”

“And end your _experiment_ before it gets started.” Draco twisted his head on the pillow slightly to peer at the other man with one eye. “Are you really that abysmally stupid?”

Forbush stared down at the Tracking charm, pursing his lips and scowling, for a long minute. Then he let go of Draco’s arm and tucked his wand into his pocket with a sigh. When he spoke, he sounded to Draco’s ears as if he were trying very hard to convince himself of something he didn’t honestly believe.

“Keep it, if it comforts you. It won’t do any harm. This room is warded so tightly that no simple Tracking charm can penetrate it. And even Harry Potter can’t just walk into the Department of Mysteries without authorization.”

Draco bit his lips to smother a smile, very pointedly not reminding this blithering idiot what had happened the last time Harry _just walked_ into the Department of Mysteries to rescue someone he loved. Let Forbush think he was in control of the situation. Let him think he knew who he was dealing with. He would find out just how wrong he was soon enough.

“I’ll fetch another batch of your potions, then we’ll have a nice chat.” Forbush gave him another of his cold smiles as he turned to leave. “Make yourself at home, Draco. You’re going to be here awhile.”

 _Fuck that,_ Draco thought at Forbush’s retreating back. _Harry’s coming, and you’re going to wish you’d never slithered up out of your hole, you fucking snake._

* * *

“It wasn’t them.” Harry circled the kitchen in long, loping strides, trying to burn off his excess energy with motion, and spoke over his shoulder to the two old friends seated at the table. “I’m sure of it.”

“ _How_ can you be sure?” Hermione demanded, swiveling her head to keep him in view as he paced. “Lucius and Narcissa are expert liars.”

“I mind-reamed Lucius.”

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t!” Hermione wailed.

Ron grimaced. “Better you than me, mate.”

Harry laughed shortly. “He’s a worse Occlumens than I am, and the inside of skull is like a rubbish bin. Everything just heaped together and left to rot.” He halted and turned to face them, declaring flatly, “I know they didn’t do it.”

“Who else could it be?”

He resumed pacing. “No fucking idea.”

Hermione fiddled with a cold cup of tea (she had insisted on brewing it, convinced that tea would help them think, but none of them had bothered to actually drink it) and chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Well, we know it’s someone with the power to neutralize your Tracking charm.”

“Obviously,” Harry grumbled, half to himself.

“And someone who knew that Draco would never turn down a meeting with an influential client.”

Harry came to a halt and glared at her in exasperation. “Hermione, this isn’t getting us anywhere! We’ve been over the same facts a dozen times!”

“I’m only trying to think logically,” she said, flushing.

“Well, think logically about something _new!_ ”

“I reckon we should start with this Shafiq bloke,” Ron stated. “He’s the one who lured Ferret into the open.”

“If it really was Imran Shafiq who wrote the letter,” Harry pointed out.

Hermione’s head came up and her brows snapped together. “Who?”

“Im— _Holy fuck!_ ” Harry gasped, clutching at his arm, as the bracelet on his left wrist suddenly burned white-hot.

“Harry?” Ron came half up off the bench. “What’s wrong?”

“The charm…”

The charm was miraculously alive again. But instead of waiting passively for Harry to trigger it, it was reaching out to him. Burning with power. Sending magic coursing up his arm and into his chest, filling him with the urgent need to…

_Hurry! Find us! Rescue us! There’s no time! Hurry, Harry, please…_

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped. The magic died. The voiceless cries echoing in his skull faded. And the Tracking charm on Harry’s wrist became nothing but an innocent silver bracelet once more.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , don’t tell me…” Harry muttered, even as he wrapped his hand round the bracelet and triggered the Tracking charm.

A bright, glowing, green line sprang up in the air, drawing a gasp of amazement from Hermione and a cheer from Ron.

“It’s working! Oh, Harry!” Hermione cried, tears of relief starting in her eyes.

Harry didn’t answer, just stared at the magical link that bound him to his husband, unshed tears filling his throat until it ached.

Ron got up from his place at the table and drew his wand. “Let’s see where it goes.”

A muttered incantation, and a shadowy three-dimensional map of London took shape in the air, transected by the line of green fire. As the other two watched intently, Ron twirled his wand until the tilting, rotating cityscape oriented itself properly and settled into place. Then he stepped right among the insubstantial buildings to trace his wand along the glowing line.

“He’s somewhere to the southeast. See? There’s the King’s Cross and Charing Cross Road.” With a wave of his wand, he expanded the map to show the familiar buildings in greater detail. “There’s the Leaky Cauldron.”

“He’s not in Diagon Alley,” Hermione mused. She got to her feet and drifted over to join Ron. Pointing to one spot on the map, she said, “Zoom in there.”

Ron complied. The scene expanded to show some shabby office buildings, a rundown pub, and a lonely-looking phone box. All three of them stared at the familiar street, then at each other, in disbelief.

“He’s at the Ministry,” Ron said. “What in the name of _Merlin’s_ _bloody_ _balls_ is he doing at the _Ministry?_ ”

“We can’t be sure he’s there,” Hermione temporized, always the voice of reason (even when no one gave a buggering fuck about reason). “The charm only gives us a direction. He could be anywhere along this trajectory, and it may be coincidence that it passes through the Ministry.”

“Hold on,” Harry murmured.

He had designed this charm himself and knew how to manipulate it, but it took a good deal of concentration. Closing his eyes to block out his friends’ worried faces, he focused on the link itself, feeling along it, testing its strength, reaching for its end. He could see it clearly in his mind. It was firm and bright down its full length, not overly stretched, telling him that Draco was not far away. And if he pictured it superimposed on the map…

His eyes snapped open. “He’s at the Ministry.”

“You sure?” Ron asked hopefully.

“I’m sure. I can tell how far the link is stretched, and it puts him right in old London.”

“So,” Ron rubbed his hands together in anticipation, “we’re breaking into the Ministry, then? Any idea where in that bloody great pile we’re going?”

“Once we’re in the building, we’ll just follow the charm.”

“I still don’t get why anyone would kidnap Ferret and take him to the Ministry, of all barmy places, but whatever. Let’s go get the little rodent.”

“Ferrets aren’t rodents,” Harry said automatically, as he turned for the door.

“Wait, hold on a minute…” Hermione reached out to stop them, her eyes fixed on something Harry couldn’t see and the gears in her brain visibly turning.

“Don’t you _dare_ start in on me about being too reckless!” Harry growled in exasperation. “Draco needs me, and I’m not going to let him down! You can help us, or you can stay here _making plans,_ but either way, we’re going!”

“No, I know…” She snapped her fingers impatiently, as though trying to summon a stray thought that refused to cooperate. “I’m just trying to remember… Who did you say sent that letter?”

Harry halted and turned to glower at her. “For Fuck’s sake! What does that matter now?”

“Just tell me, Harry. Who sent it?”

“It was a Shafiq.”

“ _Which_ Shafiq?”

“Imran.”

“Imran _._ ” She snapped her fingers again and began to gnaw furiously on the inside of her cheek, still staring into the middle distance. “Imran… Imran… I know that name…”

“Hermione, I honestly don’t care who he is! I just want to get Draco home!”

Suddenly, her eyes snapped up to meet his. They were as wide as dinner plates and full of dawning understanding. “Harry, Imran Shafiq is an Unspeakable.”

Harry’s mouth sagged open. “What did you say?”

“He’s an Unspeakable.”

“ _Bloody hell_. There was an Unspeakable at my hearing, remember? He wanted to talk to Draco.”

“That wasn’t Shafiq. I know because I’ve met him.”

“No, his name was Forbush. He sent Draco a letter, but Draco threw it in the fire without reading it, so I never found out what he wanted. _Bloody buggering fuck!_ ” Harry gaped at his friends in equal parts outrage, horror, and relief at finally solving the riddle. “The Unspeakables have him! He’s in the Department of Mysteries!”

“ _Nooo!_ ” Ron wailed, drawing startled looks from both his wife and his best mate. Sinking down onto the nearest bench, he buried his face in his hands and moaned, “No, no, no, I can’t do it, Harry! Not even for Ferret! I can’t go back there!”

“It won’t be like the last time,” Harry assured him. “We know what to look out for, and the charm will lead us straight to Draco.”

“Are we really going to break into the Department of Mysteries?” Hermione asked in a small, frightened voice.

“Have you got a better idea?”

She thought about that for a minute, then offered, plaintively, “What about Kingsley? He could order them to release Draco.”

It was Harry’s turn to think. He stared at the floor, frowning in concentration, and raked a hand through his hair, while the others waited in nervous silence (neither of them exactly thrilled at the thought of invading the DoM again). Finally, he raised his head to fix bright, triumphant eyes on his loyal (if nervous) friends.

“You’re halfway there, Hermione. And bloody brilliant, as usual.”

Without even bothering to draw his wand, Harry conjured a Patronus. His magic, as eager as he was to be let off its lead, fairly exploded out of him, and the stag was bounding about the room before it had fully taken shape. Harry held out his hand to summon the creature. It came dancing over to him, tossing its antlered head, finally falling still when he touched it.

“Go to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Tell him, ‘Draco in trouble. Need your help. Meet me in your office in five minutes.’”

The stag tossed its head once more, then gave a great leap and vanished through the ceiling.

* * *

Draco lay against a stack of pillows on the comfortable bed, his head back and his eyes barely slitted open to watch the face of the man seated beside him. Thanks to the return of his magic and a couple of potions, he was feeling no pain. In fact, it was entirely possible that Forbush had spiked one of those potions, because he felt distinctly euphoric. Floating in a golden haze. He wasn’t even angry (which some corner of his brain recognized as dangerous), just _extremely_ relaxed and unusually chatty.

“So, how’d you get a Shafiq to go along with this barmy plan of yours?” he asked, his diction slurring in a way that would have incensed his mother.

“Imran is a colleague. He was more than happy to lend a hand,” Forbush glanced up from the scroll on which he was jotting his notes to quirk one of his habitual cold smiles at Draco, “in the interests of Magical research.”

“You just ask and he… what?” Draco gestured vaguely. “Drops everything for a spot of friendly kidnapping?”

“Something like that.” His quill fell still, poised over the parchment. “Has the cramping stopped?”

Draco hummed an affirmative.

“And can you summon any magic?”

“Nope. Quaffle’s got it all.”

“I gather you’ve been living like a Squib for your entire pregnancy.”

“Most of it.” Draco smiled sleepily at him and added, in a murky way, “I did turn the bed curtains baby-shit brown once…”

“Fascinating. Let’s see how our little Potter is doing.”

Forbush drew his wand and cast a diagnostic spell at Draco.

Even in his drugged state, Draco could feel the unfamiliar (and entirely unwelcome) magic crawling over him. It felt like a stranger’s hands on his skin, and it made him recoil in disgust. Even the baby reacted, shying away from it and twitching in distress.

“Don’t do that,” Draco mumbled, trying belatedly and ineffectually to bat away the spell.

“I’m simply checking the baby’s life signs.”

“Don’t care…” Draco was having increasing trouble speaking clearly or keeping his thoughts in order. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Don’t like your magic. It… feels wrong.”

“You’ll get used to it. You don’t have much choice, if you want this pregnancy to progress normally.”

“What… why do you even want to… to study… Fuck.” He ordered himself sternly to concentrate and demanded, “What did you put in my potion?”

“Nothing unusual. I followed the instructions in the translated scroll.”

“Did someth- something wrong. Fucked it up.”

“I doubt it.” Forbush rose to his feet and bent over the bed to stare directly into Draco’s eyes. “Hmm. You are reacting very oddly to it. Try to follow my finger.”

The Unspeakable held up his index finger and began moving it from side to side. Draco did his best to track it with his eyes, but the movement made him sick, so he shut them instead.

“Fuck.”

“Do you always use such coarse language, or is this for my benefit?”

“Mouth like a Marseilles dockworker,” Draco mumbled thickly. “Ask Harry.” He cracked his eyes open again and added, more cheerfully, “He’s coming, you know, and he’ll kill you.”

“So you said.” Forbush cast a few more spells that made Draco squirm and swear at him, then sat down to continue his note-taking.

“Why d’you need me?” Draco asked, struggling to keep his brain working by asking questions. “You’ve got Granger’s notes. You know how the ritual works.”

“A written record is not enough. I need a living specimen to study.”

“Doesn’t have to be me.” (He didn’t half like the sound of that word— _specimen._ )

Forbush smiled indulgently. “It would take too long to identify another pair of wizards willing to even attempt such a complex and demanding ritual, and willingness does not guarantee success. Indeed, I would say that you and Potter are nearly unique in your combination of physical attraction, emotional commitment, and raw magical power—not to mention a serious dose of stubbornness—all of which are essential to a successful wizard pregnancy. I think my chances of finding another couple like you are vanishingly small.”

“If no one else c’n do it, what’s the good’ve studying it?”

“Curiosity? A deeper understanding of magic? I specialize in the study of Love and Magic, where they intersect and how they work together. What more significant fruit could the union of Love and Magic bear than a living soul?”

“You?” Draco eyed him sceptically through his lowered lashes. “You study _Love?_ ” Forbush did not vouchsafe this an answer, just kept scratching away with his quill. Draco let his eyes drift closed and murmured, wryly, “S’pose keeping a proper distance s’good for academics…”

Forbush finished what he was writing, then set aside quill and scroll, and drew his wand. “It’s time for your nightly dose of magic.”

“What?” Draco’s eyes flew open and his brain snapped into hard focus. He pushed himself up on one elbow. “No. You can’t.”

“On the contrary, I must. Lie back and make yourself comfortable.”

“No!” He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “You have no idea what you’re…”

With a dismissive shrug that told Draco just how little this soulless creature knew about love or magic, Forbush pointed his wand at Draco’s bulging belly and spoke the Coptic incantation. Magic poured from his wand. Draco tried to twist away but could not escape, and the dreadful, alien magic struck him yet again.

This time, it was not a stranger’s fingers stroking him but a brutal fist closing about his womb, crushing it and the baby inside it. Pain lanced through him. The baby recoiled, as if it were trying to crawl back into Draco’s body. He gave a startled cry, then crumpled forward, clutching his belly with both arms and sobbing for breath. The baby heaved again, kicking violently at his internal organs, and Draco groaned through clenched teeth, “ _Nnngh… Stop!_ ”

Forbush watched all this with raised brows, looking from the tip of his wand to Draco’s huddled form in mild surprise. “That was unexpected. Let’s try it again…”

“Stop! You’re hurting him!”

“I’m sure I’ve got the spell right,” Forbush informed him briskly. “Maybe it’s the wand movement.”

He lifted his wand again, sending Draco scrambling away to the foot of the bed, babbling, “He doesn’t like your magic! He wants his father!”

“He’ll get used to it.”

“ _No! Harry!_ He wants _Harry!_ ”

The magic hit him again, lighting his nerve endings on fire and sending the baby into a frenzy that threatened to rip Draco’s body apart. He screamed and tumbled off the bed, landing on his hands and knees on the floor, then struggled to find his feet, even as he called desperately, “ _Harry! Harry, please!_ ”

Light suddenly flared in the tiny room, making Draco cower and screw his eyes shut. He heard a deafening thunderclap, then a discharge of power that made his ears pop. Forbush swore, and Draco lifted his head, pried his eyes open, to see a gaping hole blown in the Shield charm that bounded his cell.

A commanding figure in sweeping burgundy robes strode through it, booming, “Unspeakable Forbush, you are under arrest! You will step away from Mr. Potter and surrender your wand!”

The Minister for Magic was followed by smaller but no less awe-inspiring figures in Auror red. And then…

Oh, blessed Circe, it had to be! No one else had hair like that. No one else radiated power like a fucking supernova. No one else looked at him with quite so much love and pride and fierce protectiveness, and even through the tears that filled his eyes, Draco could never mistake him.

“Harry…” he croaked, reaching out for the man who was now pushing past the Aurors and barreling into the cell.

“Draco! Draco… _Fuck!_ What has he done to you?!”

Harry hit the floor and skidded the last few feet to Draco’s side on his knees. Then Harry’s arms were around him and Harry’s power was flooding him and the pain… No. The pain was not receding. And the baby’s movements were growing ever more frantic.

“Harry,” he whimpered, clutching at the other man’s clothes. “The baby…”

“It’s all right, love, I’ve got you.”

“He’s… He’s in trouble. The potion was wrong and the magic… the magic hurt him… _Ahhh, gods! Harry!_ ”

Wracked as he was with pain, Draco was only half aware of Harry casting a spell to lighten his body and scooping him up in his arms. He only vaguely registered Weasel and Granger hovering beside him, or Kingsley Shacklebolt demanding to know where Harry was taking him. But he heard his husband’s answer clear as a bell.

“St. Mungo’s.”

Weeping with relief, he burrowed his face into Harry’s neck and shut his eyes. “Hurry. Please.”

Harry obediently turned and ran.

*** *** ***

Draco paced the little exam room frantically, restless with pain and urgency, unable to hold still for more than a handful of seconds at a time. Harry watched him in hollow-eyed worry, periodically raking his fingers through his hair, as if he could drag a useful idea out of his head with the gesture. Granger kept up a flow of talk in the misguided belief that it somehow helped. Neither of them could do a fucking thing to stop the vicious labor pains that gripped him or rescue his baby from the prison of his now-hostile womb. He needed Healer Bulstrode, but the man hadn’t turned up yet.

Another contraction hit, and he doubled over in pain, grabbing at the bed for support and groaning in misery.

“Breathe through it, Draco,” Granger urged pointlessly. “Just breathe…”

“Merlin _fuck,_ will you please _shut your gob?!_ ”

“That’s what women do when they’re in labor.”

“I’m not a woman and I’m not in _labor!_ ”

“You’re having contractions,” she pointed out with maddening reasonableness.

Contractions! Bloody fucking hell, how could he be having _contractions?!_ They were meant to push a baby out of its mother’s body, but that was the _very_ _last_ _thing_ Draco needed to do! His child had nowhere to go, no birth canal to travel down, so what possible use could contractions be to him, except to _hurt like holy living HELL?!_

He drew in a sobbing breath and fairly howled, “ _Gah! Where is Bulstrode?!_ ”

“I sent him a Patronus. He should be here any minute,” Harry assured him. Then, to Granger, “Why _is_ he having contractions? That can’t be right!”

“Thank you,” Draco panted. “Just what I‘ve been saying.”

The pain was easing. He sagged against the bed for a moment to collect himself, then the pushed away and resumed pacing. Harry fell into step beside him, offering an arm for support, and Draco took it gratefully. Together, they wove a slightly erratic path about the room, while Draco rubbed his belly with his free hand hand counted his breaths to control his building panic.

Granger watched them, frowning. “The papyrus says almost nothing about the birth, only that once the baby is fully grown, it must be removed by magic. I gathered that the wizard who documented the ritual just assumed a magical midwife would know what to do. Which isn’t very helpful, come to think of it.”

“No fucking kidding,” Draco grunted.

“I’m sorry.” Her frowned deepened. “I should have realized that we didn’t know enough and done more research.”

“A little late for that now. Oh, fuck…”

The muscles of his abdomen hardened, warning him of an oncoming pain and forcing him to a halt. He grabbed at Harry’s arm as the pain clutched him in a remorseless fist and his knees threatened to fold.

“ _Ah! Harry!_ ”

“I’m here, love. Hold on.”

“ _Where’s Bulstrode?!_ ”

In answer to his cry, the door opened, and the healer plodded in, looking more hang-dog than ever with his pouchy, drooping eyes and lugubrious expression. “What’s all this, then?” he intoned.

Three heads swiveled in his direction. Granger heaved a sigh of relief and Harry groaned, “Thank Merlin!”

Draco opened his mouth, intending to snap, _What does it fucking look like, you miserable tit?!_ But before he could get a word out, he felt a terrible, rending pain in his guts that choked off his breath and brought his gaze round to his husband’s face in panic. Heat flooded his abdomen, even as his face and limbs went icy cold. Bright spots danced before his eyes, filling his field of vision.

“Draco? What’s wrong?” he heard, as if from a great distance.

He tried to answer, but his lungs and vocal cords would not work. Nothing worked. His heart was frozen in his chest, his body paralyzed, his mind slipping rapidly away into pain-shot darkness.

“Draco! _No!_ ” a familiar voice cried.

Then everything went black.

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In looking over this, I realize that I got carried away with the italics and exclamation points. Everyone seems to be doing so much _shouting!_ Oh, well, some chapters are like that...
> 
> Next up: what happens when Draco regains his senses!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think. Comments feed my Muse!


	8. Love and Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! What a long, strange week it's been! I hope you have all survived it with your sanity intact.
> 
> Here's a little something to lift your spirits. Enjoy!

His eyes flickered open. Light stabbed into them, splitting his skull, and tears of pain blurred his vision before he could focus on his surroundings. He let his lashes fall again, felt the tears slip down his face, and silently wondered where the fuck he was. What the fuck had happened to him.

“Harry!” a familiar voice cried softly from close beside him. “Harry, come quickly!”

That name brought his eyes fluttering open again, just in time to see a face move into view above him. A wan, weary, lined, unshaven, utterly beautiful face. The one face in all the world that he most wanted to see in this or any moment.

Green eyes frowned worriedly down at him through crooked glasses. A hand touched his cheek.

“Draco?”

“Nngh,” was his eloquent answer.

A smile of surpassing loveliness swept over Harry’s face, lighting his eyes, driving away the shadows that didn’t belong there. “You’re awake!”

He tried again, mustering his nonexistent strength to speak, and produced another wordless grunt. It seemed his tongue was three times its usual size and covered with fur. Disgusting.

“Here. Let me help you,” Harry said softly.

Slipping one hand behind Draco’s head, Harry lifted it from the pillow, even as he tilted a glass to his lips. “Take a sip.”

He took a sip. It was water and it tasted like liquid bliss. He had another, larger mouthful.

“That’s good. D’you want more?”

“Mm.” He closed his mouth and let his eyes drift closed again.

“Don’t go back to sleep, love. Stay with me.” Harry settled his head back into the pillow but kept one hand against his cheek, demanding his attention. “Draco? Open your eyes.”

He obediently dragged his eyes open again (because he never could say no to Harry Sodding Potter) and blinked to bring the other man’s face into focus. At least the light didn’t hurt this time, even if everything else did. Harry was watching him intently, a crease between his brows, and Draco was struck again by how ill he looked. The lightning bolt scar on his forehead stood out angrily against his pasty skin.

Draco felt a new pain in his chest at the sight. Harry should never look that unhappy.

“Nngh… Harry,” he mumbled.

The gorgeous smile swept over his husband’s face again. “Right the first time.”

“Where…”

“You’re in St. Mungo’s. You’ve been unconscious for awhile, but you’re on the mend now.” Harry lifted his hand from the blanket and kissed it. “I told the healers you’d wake up. I told them you’d never leave us.”

Draco tried to make sense of that statement but couldn’t. His head felt as if it had been split open with a dull axe, and all his thoughts were leaking out onto the pillow, draining away even as he tried to grab hold of them. Something terrible had happened. Something that was his fault. Harry was frightened for him—had been frightened for a long time, to judge by the state of him—and was sitting vigil at his bedside. But if he and Harry were both here, then their son was alone, unless…

“Bob,” he muttered. “Is he…?”

“He’s fine,” Harry nodded to his left, toward the window that bled sunlight into the room, “just having a nap.”

Draco turned his head to look and felt his heart lurch. There, beneath the window, was a cot. And curled up on that cot, under a quilt covered in fluffy yellow ducklings, was Bob. He had his thumb in his mouth (they never could break him of that dreadful habit) and a platypus plushie clutched to his chest.

“I know this isn’t the best place for him,” Harry admitted, while Draco just stared at his son, eyes filling with tears, “but I couldn’t leave you here alone and I couldn’t bear to be without him for so long. He’s perfectly happy, really. He has his ducklings and Mr. Platters, and he can curl up with you on the bed anytime he feels scared. He spends most of his time wreaking havoc on the staff with his Veela magic.”

It wasn’t Bob, then. Bob was safe. But something was still missing. Something important. Something _huge._ Then it hit him… the yawning emptiness in his body, the stillness, the _pain_ where squirming, kicking, magical life should be…

And he remembered.

“Oh, gods,” he choked, “Harry, I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Gentle fingers stroked his face, while green eyes smiled down at him, overflowing with love and concern. “What’s this? Draco Potter apologizing?”

Fresh tears welled up in Draco’s eyes, slipped through his lashes. “I fucked up.”

“Don’t say that, love.”

“I fucked up and lost our… Lost it,” he finished in a voiceless whisper.

Understanding flooded Harry’s face. “No! Oh, no!” He gave a breathless laugh as he bent to kiss away a tear from the corner Draco’s eye. “You didn’t lose him, Draco. You didn’t. He’s right here.” Lifting his head to glance over his shoulder, he added, “Hermione, would you…?”

“Of course.”

Draco followed the sound of that familiar voice to see Hermione Granger moving up to the bed with a small bundle in her hands. It was wrapped in a familiar baby blanket covered in fluffy yellow ducklings. Bob’s ducklings.

“Here you are, my dear,” Granger said, a tremulous smile on her face.

Draco tried to lift his head to get a look inside that blanket. He couldn’t. Then he tried to move his arms, to reach for the bundle, but all he managed was a pathetic twitch.

“Hold on, love. I’ll get you up so you can see him properly.” Harry rose to his feet and stooped to slide his arms behind Draco’s shoulders.

“I want… _Nngh!_ ” Harry’s touch was gentle, his movements careful, but the pain they ignited in Draco’s body when he lifted him nearly pitched him back into unconsciousness. He grunted, his head dropping helplessly back and his eyes rolling up.

“No, you don’t,” Harry chided. “You’re not passing out before you meet your son.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Granger fretted.

“Almost done.”

Draco felt a surge of magic in the room that made his skin tingle and spark. Soft pillows floated into a heap behind him, supporting his back and shoulders. A final one fell into place behind his head, and Harry settled him carefully against it.

“All right, Hermione. Let’s have our little man.”

Draco watched through slitted, watering eyes as Granger passed the little bundle across the bed to Harry. His hands looked huge in comparison to the tiny body lying in them, but they were deft and gentle. He cradled the bundle expertly against his chest with one hand and used the other to push aside the folds of flannel. And then, miraculously, Draco was looking into the face of his son.

He was beautiful. Delicate, aristocratic bones. Translucent white skin. A pink, puckered bow of lips. A fan of lashes lying on his smooth cheeks. Just like Bob, when Draco had first seen him, except even smaller and…

“His hair,” he whispered in awe.

“Yeah.” Harry gave a rueful eye-roll. “I’m still hoping it’ll turn blond when he gets older.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Granger huffed.

“It happens! Molly says Ginny had a full head of brown hair when she was born, then it all fell out and grew back red!”

“Look at his eyelashes, Harry. And his brows. That boy is going to have hair as black as yours.”

Harry humphed and scowled. “Well, at least there’s still a chance he’ll have grey eyes.”

“He’s perfect,” Draco breathed.

His chest was beginning to ache with the need to touch his son. Once again, he tried to lift his hands. Once again, he failed.

“Harry, please.”

“You want to hold him?”

“Yes.”

Draco suddenly felt the warm weight of a baby against his chest—so familiar to him from Bob’s infancy, and so incredibly precious—and gave a sob of relief. Harry guided his hands into place on the baby’s back, lacing his fingers through Draco’s so that they held their son together. Draco let his head fall back, his eyes drop closed. Tears oozed from beneath his lashes.

Lips touched his forehead.

“Hush, love. It’s okay.”

“Bob’s ducklings,” Draco mumbled. “You gave him Bob’s ducklings.”

“Felix did that. He wanted his little brother to have them.”

Mustering all his strength, Draco shifted one hand up to cradle the baby’s head. It felt tiny and fragile, nestled in the curve of his fingers. Harry pressed another kiss to his forehead, lingering with his lips on Draco’s skin for a long minute. Then, abruptly, he broke away and bounded to his feet.

“I, _erm_ ,” he stepped away from the bed, his gaze cutting over to the door, “I’m going to fetch Bulstrode.”

Draco’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“He should know you’re awake.”

“Wait… Harry…”

“Hermione’ll be here, in case you need anything.” Harry sounded almost angry in his haste to get away. He didn’t look at Draco. Didn’t respond to the hint of pleading in his voice. Just turned for the door, growling, “I won’t be long.”

Then he was gone. Draco stared at the closed door in hurt and confusion until Granger stepped up closer, blocking his view. She offered him a wan smile.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back. He just needs a few minutes alone.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked in a rough whisper.

“You frightened him, Draco.” Folding herself into a handy chair, Granger leaned forward to touch the baby’s curled fist with a gentle fingertip. “You nearly died. It’s going to take him some time to recover from that.”

“What happened?” When she hesitated, shooting him a troubled look, he urged, “Tell me, Granger. I need to know.”

She studied his face for another moment, then surrendered to the inevitable and said, “You were bleeding internally. The healers couldn’t stop it. They got the baby out, but you just kept bleeding, and then your heart stopped. We thought…”

She broke off to clear her throat.

“We thought we’d lost you. Harry was frantic. He used his magic to put you in stasis, then he ordered the healers to cut you open and find the source of the bleeding. He stayed with you the whole time, watched everything they did. I don’t know how he could bear it, but he… Well, you know how he is. He wouldn’t leave you, no matter how much it hurt him to see you like that. And he wouldn’t listen to the healers when they said you’d never wake up. He swore and called them imbeciles and threatened to hex them.”

“That’s my heroic Gryffindor git,” Draco murmured.

Granger smiled mechanically at that, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“How long was I out?”

“More than a week.”

Draco looked at her familiar face—this woman he had despised and resented and admired and loved for so many years—and saw something he read as reproach in it. Did she blame him for Harry’s pain? For her own? Was all this his fault?

“Did I do something wrong?” he finally asked.

Her brows flew up. “What?”

“With the ritual. The spells. Did I fuck it up?”

“No, Draco. Oh, no! You were brilliant! You did everything right, and none of this was your fault. It was Shafiq and Forbush. And me,” she added, a flush staining her cheeks.

“Bollocks.”

“It’s true. If I had done my research…”

“You didn’t get me up the duff, Granger.”

“No, but I did let you and Harry perform a ritual that none of us understood properly, and it nearly cost you your life. ”

Before Draco could respond to this, the door opened and Harry strode through it. He looked a bit ragged—his eyes puffy, his nose red—but the smile he offered Draco was open and genuine, and his movements were full of their usual easy confidence when he loped over to the bed. He bent to kiss first his husband, then his oblivious son.

“Bulstrode’s on his way.” Even his voice sounded more relaxed, if a bit sniffly. Apparently, his crying jag had done the trick. “He thought I was mental when I told him you were awake and talking.”

Draco just smiled, following his every move with his half-lidded gaze, grateful to have him in his sights again.

“You have to stay awake ’til he gets here, or they’ll send me to the Janus Thickey ward for sure.”

“Mm. Harry?”

“Yes, love?”

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Twat.” Harry bent to plant another kiss on his forehead, then one on his lips. “I’m sorry I almost killed you.”

“You didn’t. Granger did. She said so.”

Harry and Granger exchanged a startled look at this, then both broke out in matching grins. Draco smiled wearily up at them through his lashes. Now all he needed was for Weasel to come barging in, ranting about how he should have known it would all go wrong and talked them out of it. Then the circle of guilt would be complete.

But when the door opened again, it was to admit Draco’s healer, rather than his friend. Bulstrode came trudging into the room, his face and body alike seeming weighed down by misery, only to catch sight of his patient sitting up against a pile of pillows and holding his baby against his chest. He halted in his tracks and gaped, his mouth at half-cock. Then, miraculously, his ever-present frown vanished, to be replaced by a look of amazement and (wonder of wonders) a beaming smile.

“Mr. Potter! This is a surprise!”

“Thought you’d gotten rid of me?” Draco murmured.

Bulstrode uttered something that might have been a chuckle, though it sounded a bit like he was coughing up gravel. “I thought I’d lost my most interesting and challenging patient through a stupid mistake. But here you are, looking… well, not quite hale and hearty, but very much alive, and that’s enough to be going on with.”

“I told you so,” Harry said huffily.

Bulstrode turned that impossible smile on him. “You did, and I should have listened. Now, if you’ll take the baby for a moment…”

“No.” Draco tightened his hold on the little bundle of flannel he held. “Don’t.”

“I need to examine you, Mr. Potter, and the baby is very much in the way.”

“I’m fine. I just want my son.”

At that, Harry stepped in to lift the baby from his chest, evading his grabbing hands. “Hermione, would you take him?”

“Give him back!”

“Behave yourself, Draco, and let the healer do his job.”

“This will only take a few minutes,” Bulstrode assured him, “then you can have a pain potion and a nice sleep.”

“I don’t want sleep. I want my son.”

“All in good time.”

Draco collapsed back against the mountain of pillows and shut his eyes, not caring what the healer was doing so long as it stood between him and his baby. He was starting to lose focus, to drift toward sleep in spite of the pain filling his body, when a sudden sound brought him awake with a start.

“Daddy?”

His head came up. His eyes found Harry’s. Then both men turned at the same time to see Bob, sitting up on his cot and knuckling his eyes.

“Daddy, I want tea.”

“In a minute, Felix,” Harry called over his shoulder.

“I’m hungry.”

Draco gave Harry’s hand a squeeze, caught his eye, and mouthed, _Go._

Harry grimaced but didn’t argue. Letting go of Draco’s hand, he crossed to the cot in a few strides and scooped the three-year-old up in his arms. The little boy burrowed his face into Harry’s neck, yawning hugely.

“I want scums. With jam.”

“Certainly with jam, but you’ll have to be patient.”

“I’m _hungry!_ ” he insisted.

“What’s more important? Scones with jam or saying hello to Papa?”

Bob straightened up at that and gave him an owl-eyed look. “Papa?”

“Yes. Papa woke up while you were napping, and he wants to see you as soon as his healer is finished. So, will you be a good boy and wait for your tea?”

“Papa!” He began to squirm and kick his legs, both hands stretched out toward the bed. “I want _Papa!_ ”

Harry shot a harassed look at the healer. “You’ve got about twenty seconds before he gets loose.”

Bulstrode looked up from his diagnostic spells to regard the child flailing frantically in Harry’s arms. Once more, that uncharacteristic smile split his face, disturbing its droopy lines. “I’m finished for now. Let the little fellow have his visit, but keep him quiet. His father is still very fragile.”

“He understands, don’t you, Felix? You remember how to behave with Papa?”

“I ’member!”

Finally, the healer backed away from the bed and Harry approached, a squirming Bob in his arms.

“Papa! Papa! Papa!” he caroled, reaching for Draco with every part of his small body.

Draco smiled and lifted his head, feeling his eyes prickle with tears at his son’s evident delight in seeing him.

“Gently, now,” Harry chided, as he settled the little boy on the mattress beside Draco.

Bob instantly bounded to his feet and flung his arms around Draco’s neck, keening, “Pap _aaaaaa!_ ”

“Careful, sweetheart!”

“He’s okay,” Draco murmured, slipping his arm around the boy’s waist (suddenly, he found the strength to move, which came as no surprise really) and pulling him close. “We’re okay.”

“You didn’t wake up an’ Baby Tio was scared,” Bob said accusingly, gazing up at his father with wide, winter-grey eyes. “He cried an’ cried, even after I gave him my ducklings.”

“Baby who?” Draco asked, his gaze lifting to Harry.

The other man grinned. “Later.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Bob assured him. “I was brave. But Baby Tio cried an’ Daddy cried an’…”

“You don’t need to tell him that,” Harry chided, flushing.

Granger gave a slightly soggy laugh. “We all cried a little, even brave Felix, but that’s over now.”

“I told Baby Tio he could have Mr. Platters, if he wanted,” Bob went on, brightly, “but Daddy said he was too little. That Mr. Platters would squash him.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant, Potter,” Draco murmured, a smile twitching at his lips, the tears of happiness burning hotter in his eyes.

He loved his family so fucking much!

Harry chuckled and settled onto the edge of the mattress where he could pet Bob’s rumpled hair and smile into Draco’s dazed, half-lidded eyes. “Okay, so I stretched the truth a little, but you try explaining asphyxiation to a three year old.”

Draco tried to laugh, but it triggered a stab of pain in his guts that made him sob instead. He shut his eyes.

“Papa?”

The edge of fear in Bob’s voice forced him to pry his eyelids up again.

“Papa, don’t! Don’t go to sleep!”

“He has to sleep,” Harry said gently, “but it won’t be like before. He’ll be able to wake up when we need him.”

“Baby Tio needs you _now_.” Little fists gripped the front of his pajama shirt and tugged insistently at it. “He needs his papa.”

“I know.”

With a supreme effort, Draco managed to lift his head and lean forward to rest his cheek on Bob’s silken mop of hair. Bob cuddled into his chest. Draco closed his eyes in gratitude.

“I’m here. I won’t leave again.”

“I missed you, Papa.”

“I missed you, too, Urchin.”

Draco stayed like this—arm around his son’s little body, face buried in his hair—just holding Bob and letting the realization that he was alive and back with his family soak into his exhausted brain, until the door opened yet again. This time, it was a nurse with a tray of potion vials and crockery. Draco cast a sideways glance at her from beneath his lashes but didn’t stir.

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter,” she said cheerfully.

“Mm,” he grunted, knowing it was impolite but too tired and too content to muster up a better response.

“I’m afraid I have to break up this party. You need potions and lunch, then a good rest.” Her eyes narrowed as they shifted to Bob. “And no squirming boys on your bed. Come along, Master Felix, down you get.”

Bob gave her a mulish look. “My name is Bob.”

Again, Draco wanted to laugh, but this time he didn’t even try. He was still hurting from his last attempt. Luckily, Harry had more energy than he did and stepped in to deal with his monumentally stubborn son.

“Off the bed, little man. Now.”

Bob threw him a burning look but knew better than to argue. Bestowing a smacking kiss on Draco’s cheek, he unwound himself from his father and crawled to the edge of the mattress. He was peering down at the floor, calculating how difficult it would be to reach it, when Harry scooped him up in his arms.

“Hermione, why don’t you take him up to the tea room for lunch? He can have a couple of scones with strawberry jam, if he eats a proper meal first.”

Bob smacked his lips and gave Hermione his most beguiling smile. “Scums ’n’ jam. My _fav’rite_.”

She returned the smile with interest. “Mine, too.”

“Don’t hurry back,” Harry added. “I need some time alone with my husband.”

“Understood. What about the baby?”

“Leave him in his cradle.”

Granger obediently settled the little bundle of flannel and fluffy yellow ducklings in a wooden cradle that stood by the wall. Then she held out her hands to Bob.

“Let’s go, sweetheart.”

It took a few minutes to reconcile Bob to leaving his parents, then to get him decently groomed and dressed. While Harry and Granger wrestled with him, the nurse poured several potions down Draco’s throat, plumped his pillows, and lectured him on the need to eat regularly. He pretended to listen until finally she gave up and left. Granger went out behind her, holding Bob’s hand and chatting pleasantly to him like the experienced mother that she was. Then he was alone with Harry and their new baby.

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed and reached up to stroke his hair.

“Okay, love? Are the potions taking the edge off?”

Draco murmured something indistinct, turning his face into Harry’s hand, hungry for his touch.

“It’s so good to have you back. I missed you so fucking much.”

“Hmm… Harry.”

“I’m right here, my beauty.”

With that, he leaned into the pile of pillows, slid an arm behind Draco’s shoulders, and pulled him into his chest. Draco curled against him with a sigh of pain and relief. Harry’s warmth wrapped him, Harry’s scent filled his head, and Harry’s voice soothed him like the most loving touch.

“I’ve got you, now. Got you safe. You’re back where you belong, and I’ll never let you go again. My beautiful flower pot, my warrior-barrister, my darling Drama Queen.”

“Mmm,” Draco breathed into his shoulder.

“Fuck, I love you.” Harry began to pet his hair with his free hand, and if it had been physically possible, Draco would have purred in response. “I love you so much that it hurts.”

“Not as much as having a baby,” Draco murmured.

A laugh shook the body supporting his. “No, not that much. But you did it.” He pressed a kiss to Draco’s forehead. “You gave us a baby. You fucking incredible man!”

“I want him. Our baby.”

“Soon, I promise. I just need a minute to hold you with nothing between us.”

“Harry…”

Draco lifted his chin, searching for Harry’s face with his bleared gaze, and twisted his body to lie more fully against him. Moving was agony, but being apart from his Harry was worse. Much worse. It was more pain than he could stand in his current condition.

Harry understood and gathered Draco against him. Then he kissed him—his eyes, his hair, his lips—before tucking his head under his chin. The bliss was almost too much for Draco’s heart to take. It staggered in his chest, drawing a soft whimper of pain from him, then slammed into his ribs when Harry whispered, “Hush, love, it’s all right,” in his ear.

He began to cry, and Harry—devoted fucking Gryffindor that he was—cried with him.

* * *

The next time he awoke, it was to the sound of muted voices. He had fallen asleep in Harry’s arms—was still there, to judge by the warm body breathing against his—and had no clue how much time had passed. Enough to make his brain feel clogged and fuzzy.

He grunted and opened his eyes.

“Papa?” an anxious voice called.

He grunted again, turned his head, hunted for the source of that voice, and felt Harry’s hand stroke his hair lovingly.

“Shh. Go back to sleep, love.”

“Mmm… Bob…”

“I’m here, Papa!”

Harry shifted his hold on Draco’ body, turning him onto his back and settling him against his mound of pillows. Then, finally, he could see more than the front of his husband’s rather grubby t-shirt. And the first sight that met his eyes was the face of his son, beaming down at him from Granger’s arms.

Draco couldn’t quite summon the strength to smile in response, but he did feel his face soften with (probably doting) fondness.

“I had tea,” Bob informed him proudly. “Shepherd’s pie with orange on top.”

“Melted cheese,” Granger supplied, by way of translation.

“It wasn’t as good as Daddy’s, but I _cleaned_ my _plate_ like a _good boy_.”

“Yes, you were a very good boy. Now you need to settle down and be quiet, so your papa can rest.”

“Me, too,” he insisted. “I want to rest.”

Granger started toward Bob’s cot. “I’ll tuck you in.”

“No! With Papa!”

“Now, Felix…”

“Bring him here,” Draco whispered, holding out a hand toward his son.

“I don’t know… he’s got a lot of sugar in him. He ate three scones and an entire pot of jam.”

“Do it, Hermione,” Harry interjected. “He’ll be good.”

With the long-suffering sigh of a mother whose wisdom and experience are being flagrantly ignored, she carried Bob over to the bed and let his feet drop to the mattress. He immediately dropped to his knees and crawled over to Draco. Then he cuddled into the mound of pillows, tucked himself under Draco’s arm, and nestled his head into his shoulder.

“I’m always good,” he stated, with utter conviction, drawing a laugh from everyone but Draco (who knew better than to try). Then, turning his most hopeful gaze on Harry, he asked, “C’n I hold Baby Tio?”

“No, it’s Papa’s turn.”

“Let me do the honors.” A tall figure that had hung back by the door, at the edge of Draco’s (rather blurry) field of vision, now stepped toward the cradle, and Draco realized—with vague surprise—that it was Ron. “I’ve been waiting more than a week to see this little bloke where he belongs.”

“Weasel?” Draco murmured dazedly.

A wide smile split the other man’s face. “Hey, Ferret.” He stooped over Draco, the now-familiar bundle of duckling-spotted flannel in his hands. “Can you hold him all right?”

“Mmm.” Draco disentangled his hands from both Harry and Bob to receive his infant son. With Ron’s help, he pulled the baby into his chest, cradled his head and bum, and feathered a kiss to his smooth, round cheek. The baby smacked his lips, as if dreaming of scones with jam, and opened one tiny hand. When it closed again, the slender fingers wrapped around a fold of Draco’s pajama shirt.

It was entirely by accident, he was sure, but it filled his heart to bursting anyway.

“See?” Ron said proudly. “Little Tio knows his mum.”

“Why d’you call him Tio?” Draco asked, in a faded whisper.

“Well, that’s his name, innit?”

He blinked up at the other man. Frowned in puzzlement. “Is it?”

“That’s what everyone calls him.”

“Why?”

Ron grinned and shrugged. “Because Harry told us to.”

“Ron…” Harry groaned.

But his best mate went on, oblivious to his warning, “And it’s too late to change it, now. Not since the entire St. Mungo’s staff, including the nurses and the healers and the orderly who cleans the floors and the Squib who fills the urns in the tea room all got hold of it. Not to mention that berk from the _Daily Prophet_ who wrote a story about the birth of the Savior’s son and put it in print that his name is Amortentius…”

“ _Ron!_ ”

“Wait,” Draco cut in, his mind suddenly in all-too-perfect focus, “ _what_ did you say?”

“Amortentius.” Harry groaned again and face-palmed, while Ron gazed in bafflement at Draco’s flushed, outraged expression. “Tio, for short because his big brother, there, can’t say the full name properly.”

“I don’t fucking believe this,” Draco said, in a deadly whisper. His eyes cut from Ron to Harry and narrowed dangerously. “I don’t fucking _believe_ what I’m hearing.”

“What?” Harry was trying on one of Bob’s patented faux-innocent faces and failing miserably to pull it off. He just looked gormless. “We had to call him _something_ while you were unconscious, so I just… well…”

“Decided to call him after a _potion_ ,” Draco finished for him.

“A love potion! Love and magic, remember?”

“What I remember is that I threatened to divorce you, if you named our son Amortentius.”

“No, you threatened to murder me and dump my body in the Thames.”

“Right. Good. Let’s go with that.”

At that point, Granger decided to stick her wand in (because this was Granger, after all, and how could she resist?). “Harry, did you really choose a name you knew Draco hated, just because he was unconscious and couldn’t stop you?”

“Not just bec— What? No! That’s not…” Harry spluttered, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

“Well! Of all the underhanded, unscrupulous, _Slytherin_ things to do!”

“Hold on,” Draco protested. “The Slytherin is the injured party, here.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but…”

“Leave off, Hermione,” Ron advised. “Those two can bollock it up enough by themselves. They don’t need your help.”

“Says the man who started all this by opening his fat gob!” Harry reminded him hotly.

“Oh, no. You can’t blame this one on me. _I_ didn’t name the little bloke after a ruddy potion!”

“Bloody buggering fuck,” Draco muttered, his head falling back and his eyes falling closed.

“Oi, mate, watch your language in front of the urchin.”

“Papa talks like that all the time,” Bob said equably.

Draco cracked his eyes open to favor his son with a quelling glare. All it accomplished was to make Bob twinkle irrepressibly at him and chirp, “Don’t be mad at Daddy. Tio is a nice name. The baby likes it.”

“Told you that, did he?”

He gave an emphatic nod. “Yup.”

“I’m losing my mind,” Draco muttered, as his eyes fell closed once more. “I am losing my fucking mind.”

“Can we please talk about this rationally?” Harry asked. “Without shouting or swearing?”

“I don’t know, can we?”

“Look, Draco, no one’s made any final decisions without consulting you. Tio is just a nickname…”

“It’s not,” Bob insisted, a scowl gathering on his angelic face. “It’s his name.”

“That’s enough out of you, young man. As I was saying, Tio is a nickname, and we haven’t filed any paperwork that says otherwise. So we can still name him anything we want.”

“ _Anything?_ ”

“Anything.” Then, quickly, before Draco could open his mouth, “Except Sid or Lenny or Dick.”

Draco glared at him for a long, burning minute, fairly aching to blurt out some hideous, decidedly un-magical name guaranteed to drive his husband barking mad, but manfully controlling the urge.

It was childish of him. Unworthy. Counterproductive. And anyway, he was too fucking tired for one of their classic, rafter-rattling rows. So, instead of deliberately throwing fuel on the fire, he went for…

“Will. His name is Will.”

Harry paused, thinking, then ventured, “William? Like Bill Weasley?”

“No, Will. Like Will Shakespeare.”

“You want to name our son after some mouldy old playwright?”

“I want to name our son after the greatest writer who ever lived.”

“But he was a Muggle.”

“So what?”

“Hmph.” Harry frowned and crossed his arms stubbornly. “I don’t get your fascination with Muggle names. What’s wrong with a nice, imposing, _magical_ name? We could call him Fidelius!”

“No, Potter,” Draco sighed wearily, “we could not _._ ”

Shooting a helpless glance at his friends, Harry pleaded, “Help me out, guys!”

Ron shook his head. “Sorry, mate, but I have to go with Ferret on this one. William Shakespeare Potter beats Amortentius Fidelius Potter, any day.”

“I’m afraid he’s right, Harry,” Hermione agreed. “Can’t you come up with something a bit less silly? Orion or Abraxas…”

“No.” Draco declared. “No Malfoy or Black names. No constellations. No Latin. No spells. No bloody potions! If you won’t agree to Will, it’ll have to be Dick or Lenny.”

“That’s just cruel!” Harry groaned.

“Will is nice,” Hermione ventured. “You don’t have to mention the Shakespeare part.”

“And the foul urchin, here, can still call him Tio because, why not?” Ron put in, grinning.

Harry began to pout—just like Felix in a snit—then tried to rearrange his face into a more adult expression before Draco caught him at it. “How about William Amortentius Potter?”

“Harry.” The deadly serious note in Draco’s voice instantly sobered everyone and brought all eyes to him. “Remember the river.”

Harry looked sadly deflated at that. “You really want to name him Will?”

Draco couldn’t stand it. What right did the prat have to go all wistful on him, when he was so weakened by blood loss that he couldn’t withstand one look from those cursed green eyes? He’d have to get Potter for this when he was himself again.

His voice was almost kind when he said, “We could name him after you. Little Harry. Or Hal.”

“More Shakespeare?” Hermione asked, with a twinkle.

Draco smiled slightly at her. “Prince Hal.”

“Prince was Snape’s mother’s name,” Harry said with a shudder. “Don’t even go there.”

Ron scratched his head, looking around at the various frowns they all wore. “Is there any name left in the wizarding world that doesn’t hold some kind of bad memory for one of you? The Blacks, the Malfoys, the Snapes and Princes and Riddles…”

They all shuddered at that one, but Ron went on blithely.

“Why can’t you two just pick someone you both like and name the poor kid after him? Quit overthinking it and just _name_ him, already!”

Harry and Draco looked at each other for a long minute, then, in the same breath, began tossing names out.

“Albus,” Harry suggested.

Draco countered with, “Severus.”

“James.”

“Harry.”

“No. Draco.”

“Fuck, no!”

“Okay, Pavo.”

“Ronald.”

“Really?”

“Stay out of this, Ron!” they chorussed.

“Sorry.”

“Augustus.” (That was Harry, of course.)

“Arthur.”

“Are you going to go through the entire Weasley clan to wear me down?”

“You’ve got a problem with Weasley names?”

“Hmph! Neville.”

“ _Blaise_.”

“Oh, no, you don’t! The only thing of Zabini’s I want is his leather trousers!” (Harry, again.)

“You boys are getting off track.”

“ _Stay out of it, Granger!_ ”

“All right. Fine.”

“Fidelius!”

“ _Crucio!_ ” (Draco, in desperation, his worser angels getting the better of him.)

“That’s not funny.”

“Then stop using spells, you git.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“Of course not, it was Weasel’s idea.”

“Arthur.”

“I already said Arthur.”

“Well, now I’m saying it.”

“Well… then… I suppose we should name him Arthur.”

“Arthur Amortentius Potter. It has a nice ring to it.”

“ _ARRGH!!_ ”

“Harry, you’re going to kill Draco if you aren’t careful. He’s only just woken up from a ten-day coma!”

“I’m fine, Granger. How about Arthur Pendragon Potter?”

“Too alliterative.”

“Arthur Amortentius is alliterative.”

“Yes, but it’s better.”

“Potter, you are a complete and utter _tit!_ ”

“Maybe, but I know a good name when I hear one, and Arthur Amortentius Potter is an _excellent_ name.”

“It’s not. It’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous in a good way.”

At that point, Draco threw his head back in frustration and whacked it on the bedstead. The resulting clang of bone on metal brought Harry up out of his seat in a rush.

“Draco? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay! Granger’s right. You’re going to kill me.”

“I’m sorry. I am. I don’t care what we name the little fellow, as long as you’re happy and you don’t crack your skull on the headboard. How about William Arthur? Do you like that? Would that make you happy?”

Draco gave him a sulky look and muttered, “Too many Weasleys.”

“But the William is for Shakespeare, and he was a Muggle, so he couldn’t’ve been a Weasley.”

Draco’s face softened. “You’re an imbecile, Potter.”

“Yeah, I am. So, it’s William Arthur, then?”

He shook his head fractionally. “We each get to pick a name.”

“Okay.” Harry stroked back his hair and kissed his forehead. “You go first.”

“Arthur.” Draco waited for a moment, then urged, “Your turn.”

Harry bit his lip. Draco could see the dreaded name hovering on the tip of his tongue and knew that his ever-noble husband was holding back on his behalf. But he also knew just how much Harry wanted to immortalize the love and magic that had formed their precious son in his name.

“It’s all right, Harry,” he finally whispered, so quietly that only Harry could hear him. “Just say it.”

“You won’t torture me to death? Or have a coronary and die on me?”

Draco gave him a wry smile. Shook his head.

“I’m only doing it for Felix. So he can have his baby brother Tio.”

“Always the devoted father.”

Bracing himself, Harry said, “Amortentius.”

Draco didn’t even flinch. “Arthur Amortentius Potter.” His smile twisted into a grimace. “It’s bloody horrible.”

“It’s bloody brilliant, just like our son.”

**_To be continued…_ **


	9. Fluff, Smut and an Abundance of Ducklings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter done! No sooner had I posted the last chapter than I lost a skirmish with Gravity (we have a very hostile relationship, Gravity and I), fell down a flight of stairs, and bruised myself up so that I couldn't sit with a computer on my lap for over a week. Then the chapter refused to cooperate (it turns out that I'm not in the right frame of mind for Sentimental Christmas Fluff, so I wasted days working on a section that just wasn't going to happen). But here we are at last! It isn't the chapter I intended to write, but I think it's better than what I'd originally planned.
> 
> My thanks to therunningfoxes for the brilliant suggestion of a nickname for little Arthur. It comes from T.H. White's _The Sword in the Stone_ , and as Draco would say, "If it's good enough for King Arthur, it's good enough for my son."
> 
> Enjoy!

He was supposed to be working. Brushing up on the latest developments in his field. Proving to Harry that he was healthy and alert and belonged here in his own home instead of languishing in hospital. Unfortunately, the scroll he was reading (an essay on Magical Jurisprudence in Post-War Britain, with special reference to the widespread economic repercussions of anti-pureblood policies, if you please) was crushingly dull, and he had dozed off twice already to the crackling of the fire on the hearth, the warmth of the eiderdown tucked around him, the softness of the down pillows piled at his back, and the comforting weight of the baby on his chest.

And who could blame him, really? Even Oobleck, tired out from pouncing on his feet and chewing the corners of his parchment scroll to pulp, had finally surrendered to the inevitable and curled up for a nap. Surely Harry would understand that a man needed his rest, especially one who’d been up half the night with a hungry infant (never mind that Draco had slept through the baby’s thin cries until Harry got out of bed to fetch a bottle for him, and that Draco could very well have left the feeding duties to his husband), and wouldn’t give him that narrow look that said he was silently fretting over Draco’s health.

The words began to blur and dance before his eyes. He yawned hugely, gave an exaggerated blink, then frowned at the parchment. The lines of script promptly slid out of focus again. Draco sighed in defeat and let his head fall back onto the pillows.

Then the wards sparked. His head came up and his eyes flew open. Someone was coming through the floo, which could only mean…

“Draco?” Feet pounded on the stairs and, a breathless moment later, Harry blew into the room on a whirlwind of Auror-red robes and obscene amounts of energy. “Good! You’re awake!”

“Of course I’m awake,” Draco replied loftily. “I’m working.”

He tossed away his scroll as he said it and lifted his face to receive Harry’s kiss. It was brief but fervent and told him (as if he needed the added assurance after the manner of Harry’s entrance) that things had gone well at the trial. Harry dropped another kiss on the baby’s head, then straightened up, beaming.

“Twelve years. The bastard got twelve years.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Really?”

That seemed like a hefty sentence for the crime of holding a former Death Eater captive for a few hours.

“Kidnapping, grievous bodily and magical harm, child endangerment. Guilty on all counts. It would have gone a lot worse for him if you or Tio had died, but even a happy ending couldn’t save him, once Bulstrode got up to testify.” Harry grinned with undisguised relish. “For once, that way he has of making a simple ‘hello’ sound like a catastrophe of epic proportions worked in our favor. I swear he never said a word that wasn’t simple medical fact, but he had half the Wizengamot in tears by the time he was done. It was fucking brilliant.”

“What about Shafiq?”

“Sacked. A hefty fine. Two years of monitoring by the DMLE and restrictions on his wand. Basically, the message there was ‘Pick your friends more carefully next time’.”

“So that’s done.” Draco settled back against the pillows and let his eyes drift to half-mast, watching from beneath his lashes as Harry began unfastening his robes. “What about the rest of it? Did you speak to Robards?”

“No.” Harry gazed blankly at the wall for a moment, his expression thoughtful, then brought his eyes back to the present and to his husband’s face. He smiled innocently. “He was in a meeting. Where’s Molly?”

“Giving Bob his tea. What’s wrong, Harry?”

“Wrong?” Those would-be guileless green eyes widened. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why did you go all funny when I mentioned Robards?”

“I didn’t go _funny._ I was thinking.”

“Never a good sign.”

That earned him a wide, loving smile and a peck on the lips. “Twat. Let me get Molly sorted, then we can talk.”

“About what?”

Harry just waved a jaunty farewell and headed for the door.

Draco frowned at his abrupt exit but did not try to stop him. He was more than ready to be shot of Molly Weasley for the day. He appreciated her willingness step in when Harry couldn’t be here to look after his little family, but a few hours of her managing personality was more than enough for him in his current fragile state. Molly had a loving but infuriating tendency to swoop in, take over the household, pluck his newborn infant from his arms, bundle him about like a pile of dirty laundry, and order him bossily to eat his lunch, when all he wanted to do was hold his precious Wart and watch him slurp happily at his bottle. She even changed the baby’s nappies for him, though that was the very first parental duty Draco had mastered with Bob and one he (irrationally but quite jealously) regarded as peculiarly his own.

Weren’t grandmothers supposed to relish handing the children back to their parents when playtime was over? He’d heard that somewhere—that the primary joy of being a grandparent was watching your offspring struggle with the messier, smellier, more exhausting aspects of parenthood, while you spoiled the little darlings rotten.

His own grandparents had not taught him this, of course. They had never played with him, never indulged him, never come into contact with him at all, unless he’d been groomed and dolled up and cowed into rigid silence. In fact, they seemed to view their grandson as some rare species of warm-blooded statue. Molly had certainly not taught him either, being the sort of grandmother who would just as soon adopt the little ones as her own and raise them without their parents’ unwelcome, unnecessary, largely inept interference. So, who had?

Granger’s parents, most likely, who were the closest thing to ordinary people that Draco had ever met (if anyone who had produced a witch like Hermione Granger could be considered ordinary).

Molly’s voice filtered up the stairs, interrupting his musings. “I’ll be on my way now, Draco, dear! There’s tea and plum cake in the kitchen when you’re ready for it! Get some rest!”

That was her solution for everything—eat and rest. Not bad, as solutions went, but it had its limits. Right now, he was far more interested in what was going on in his husband’s daft head than he was in food or sleep.

No sooner had the wards tingled at Molly’s departure than Harry was back, bustling about, full of distractions. He hung up his Auror robes, removed the wand-sheath from his forearm, and fiddled with Draco’s scroll (much to the annoyance of Oobleck, who considered the destruction of scrolls her personal province) while he asked a series of hopeful questions.

“Ready for your tea? Is Tio hungry? Did Felix get his books sorted, like he promised?”

“No, no, and how the fuck should I know?” Draco answered tartly. “Harry, will you please stop fussing and tell me what’s got you so wound up?”

“Nothing.” Harry tossed the scroll away, then plunked down on the bed at Draco’s feet. “I’m not wound up.”

“Right. Just like you didn’t go funny when I mentioned Robards.”

“I did— oh, all right.”

Bounding up off the bed again, he crossed to the wardrobe to fish something out of the pocket of his robes. When he turned back around, he looked decidedly nervous. Almost shifty. His eyes skated away, and his teeth tugged at his lower lip.

“I found this in my office, when I stopped by after the trial. I’ve been trying to decide if I should even show it to you.”

“What is it?”

Harry tapped the thing in his hand. It abruptly expanded into a rectangular object wrapped in blue and white paper, with a cluster of curled white ribbon on the top.

“A baby gift?” Draco eyed his husband in some surprise. “I realize that’s the last thing we need—we’re in imminent danger of being buried alive under a heap of onesies and plush toys as it is—but it’s not exactly sinister.”

“Don’t say that ’til you read the card.”

Draco arched a brow at him, and Harry held out the package to him. Draco took it, turned it in his hands, frowned at the tasteful paper with its woolly white sheep on a baby-blue background, then found the little card tucked under the cluster of ribbon. It read: _To Arthur with love from Grandmama and Grandpapa._

His blood instantly ran cold. “What the _fuck?_ ”

“I told you.” Harry pulled an envelope from his back pocket and held it out to Draco. “This was with it.”

Draco saw that the envelope was addressed to Mr. Harry Potter in his mother’s elegant hand. He refused to touch it. “Why would my mother write to _you?_ ”

Harry shrugged. “Because she knew that you would only burn her letter. Then have her arrested.”

“And you won’t?”

“I will if you want me to, but maybe you’d better read it, first.”

Draco contemplated the seemingly-innocent envelope for a handful of heartbeats. Then, with a snort intended to mask his unease, he plucked it from Harry’s fingers and flipped it open. He instantly recognized the smooth, expensive feel of his mother’s best stationery and tried not to respond to the potent sense-memory it triggered. Inside was a single sheet of parchment covered in her copperplate script. It read:

_Dear Harry,_

“She’s calling you Harry now? That can’t be good.”

“Just read.”

“Hmmph!”

_I am sending this to you at the Ministry, rather than your home, to avoid any appearance of harassment. Please believe that I mean you and your family no harm. I only wish to express my congratulations on the birth of your son and my most profound thanks for what you have done. I know that Draco and his child would be dead now, had you not moved so swiftly, just as I know that I nearly brought about that same tragic end with my selfishness and folly. I am truly sorry, Harry._

“Bloody hell,” Draco breathed. “An apology? From my _mother?_ ”

_You do not have to believe in my remorse. Merlin knows, I have given you no reason to do so. But it is sincere, as is my gratitude._

_Please accept this small gift for Arthur. It is offered with no strings attached and no expectations. And please give my dearest love to Draco, if you think he is inclined to receive it. I bow to your better judgement in that respect and make no demands upon you. Just know that I love my son, I treasure my grandchildren, and I wish nothing but happiness to you and yours. Perhaps, some day, Draco will be glad to know it, too._

_This is the last you will hear from me. I will only say, from the bottom of my heart: Thank you, Harry Potter, for loving my son so well._

_Yours,_

_Narcissa_

_P.S. If this letter brings the Aurors to my door with a warrant for my arrest, so be it. These things had to be said. —N_

Draco finished the letter but sat staring mutely at the page, while Harry fidgeted beside him. He turned the parchment over to look at the back (for what, he had no bleeding idea), then flipped it over again. The writing still—impossibly—looked like his mother’s.

“Did she really write this?”

“You tell me.”

Draco stared for another beat, then tossed the letter aside and reached for the package. He tore the paper away to reveal a book bound in worn blue leather, the cover stamped with gold lettering that had rubbed off in places. A well-loved book. A very familiar book. In fact…

He flipped open the front cover to see his own name written on the flyleaf in childish, looping letters. And beneath it, in his mother’s hand, _Arthur Amortentius Potter, 29 November 20—._

“A book?” Harry said, puzzled.

“Some people do read, Potter,” he retorted automatically, his eyes still on the inscription.

“Let me see.”

Draco handed him the book and watched as he read the inscription and thumbed through a few pages.

“The Sword in the Stone. I’ve heard of this.”

“I should hope so. It’s one of the great literary works of the 20th century.”

“Isn’t it a Muggle book?”

“Actually, no.” Draco smirked up at his husband. “The author published it in the Muggle world, under a Muggle pseudonym, but he was from a wizarding family older and more august than even the Malfoys. The book was a tremendous success in both the Magical and Muggle worlds, though the author faced a lot of criticism for his disrespectful treatment of Merlin.” A twinkle crept into his eyes. “But I always assumed his Merlin was meant as a portrait of Dumbledore, which would explain why my parents approved of it.”

Harry riffled through several more pages, read a few lines, and let out a snort of laughter. “So _this_ is why you call him Wart!”

Draco’s smirk widened into a grin. “If it’s good enough for King Arthur, it’s good enough for my son.”

Harry flipped further into the book, paused to scan a page, and gave another startled laugh. “Bloody hell!”

“Found him, have you?”

“Dumbledore never had owl-shite in his hair!”

“It’s satire, you dolt.”

“It’s wicked.” His smile faded. Turned thoughtful. He closed the book and gazed down at it, stroking the well-worn cover with light fingers. “What do you want to do with this?”

Draco considered for a moment, then said, “Put it on the shelf in the nursery.”

“But… it’s from your parents. And it’s really yours, something you obviously treasured.” His kind, rather troubled eyes found Draco’s. “Don’t you mind that they’re giving it away?”

Draco held out his hand for the book and, when Harry surrendered it, mirrored his actions in stroking his fingers over the soft leather, the peeling gold leaf of its cover. He flipped it open again to stare at the flyleaf. Seeing his son’s name beneath his own gave him a warm feeling in his chest.

“It’s a very thoughtful gift. Very appropriate.”

“Well, it’s got no bloody great ‘M’s stamped on it, anyway.”

Draco’s eyes laughed up at Harry. “And they didn’t write their own names in it, so he never has to know who gave it to him.”

“Is that what you want? To keep the gift but erase the givers?”

In answer, Draco retrieved the torn wrapping paper from the bedclothes and detached the little tag from it. At the crinkle of paper, Oobleck’s head came up sharply. And when Draco tossed the wrappings away again, she bounded over his legs to pounce on them.

Tucking the tag into the front cover of the book, he handed it back to Harry. “He can use it as a bookmark.”

“Does this mean you accept your mother’s apology?”

Draco sighed and slumped back against his heap of pillows. “Do you?”

Shrugging, Harry sat down on the edge of the mattress by Draco’s hip. He reached over to stroke Wart’s head almost absently, his gaze far away. “I don’t know.”

“Do you believe any of her protestations?”

“I believe she loves you. I always believed that. I just don’t understand that kind of love.”

“No.” Draco held out a hand to Harry, and when he took it, drew their clasped hands up so he could kiss the other man’s palm. “You wouldn’t.”

Harry quirked a half-smile at him that was as full of worry as of affection. “You still love them, don’t you?”

“Yes. But insanity runs in my family, as our friends at the _Daily Prophet_ are so eager to remind us.”

“And you don’t want me to have them arrested for violating the Wizengamot order again.”

“No.”

“So… what do you want? To keep the book? To tell Tio it’s from his grandparents? To let them back into our lives?”

“The first two, definitely. The third… I haven’t decided yet.”

Before Harry could reply to this, they both heard the patter of little feet on the wooden floor, and Bob calling, “Daddy! Dad- _dyyyyy!_ ”

Harry and Draco exchanged a wary look, while Oobleck paused in her assault on the wrapping paper to gaze hopefully at the door (Bob was always good fun in her opinion).

“Merlin. How much plum cake did he have?” Draco muttered, even as Bob burst into the room.

“Look, Daddy!” He waved a handful of plush fur in Harry’s direction. “Look what I found!”

Harry accepted the treasure Bob thrust at him, holding it up for Draco to see. It was a duckling plushie—a bit mangled and mangy from too much love, but recognizable as the one Granger had purchased for Bob in the St. Mungo’s gift shop when he was only weeks old. His very first duckling.

“That’s brill,” Harry enthused. “Where did you find it?”

“In a box.”

Well, that was enlightening, and about what one would expect from a three year old. Harry was a great one for asking pointless questions.

“It’s for Tio.”

“Are you sure you want to give away your favorite duckling?”

Bob bounced happily on his toes and made a grab for the toy. “It’s little, see? It won’t squash him, like Mr. Platters.” Taking it from Harry, he cradled the little duckling to his chest and petted it fondly. “It’ll keep him warm an’ safe ’til he’s big enough for a plaptipuss.”

“He has lots of plushies, sweetheart…”

“This one’s best.”

With that inarguable statement of fact, Bob turned for the cradle that waited by the wall to receive Wart. It was a lovely, Victorian thing that stood up tall on carved legs, rocked smoothly when touched, and had once sported a ruffled canopy that Harry had discarded with evident disgust. Now, its sides were draped with snuggly blankets and its mattress was littered with a veritable menagerie of plush toys that no Magical Victorian child of high birth would have been suffered to touch. A mobile dangled from the crosspiece, hung with detailed replicas of Magical creatures that fluttered and writhed and roared in tiny voices or emitted gouts of colorful smoke when poked with a wand (a gift from Hagrid, obviously).

Wart had been sleeping in the cradle (when he wasn’t sleeping on his father’s chest) since his return from St. Mungo’s, while Bob still inhabited the nursery. All this sorting and giving away of treasured belongings was preparatory to Bob moving down the hall to a new room and Wart taking over the nursery—neither of which developments pleased Draco at all. He didn’t want Bob uprooted and he didn’t want Wart out of his sight, so as far as he was concerned, the status quo was just fine, thank you very fucking much.

As usual, his husband and son ignored his wishes and went blithely about their business of spoiling a perfectly good thing.

Bob caught the upper edge of the cradle and swung it down so he could peer inside.

“Why don’t you put it in his crib in the nursery,” Harry suggested. “He’s got enough toys in here.”

“He doesn’t sleep in the nursery.”

“He will soon. And he’ll need his best duckling, when he does.”

Bob gave this due consideration, his face screwed up in a way that always struck terror into those who knew him best, then broke out in a beatific smile. “’Kay!” he chirped. Then he ripped out of the room with a delighted Oobleck scampering after him.

Draco watched him go with something approaching alarm. “What is he up to?”

“He’s just going to put the duckling in Tio’s crib,” Harry replied calmly.

Draco’s eyes cut over to him and narrowed. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

Harry just shrugged and stretched himself out on the bed, his head resting on one fist. The look he gave Draco was dotingly fond and more than a little imbecilic. It made Draco smile in spite of himself.

“You’ll be sorry when he brings the house down around our ears.”

His incorrigible husband laughed at that. “I’ll put it back up again. Maybe with fewer Dark spells in the walls.”

“He’s a menace, Harry, and you know it. Pretty soon, we’re going to have to suck it up and have the Talk with him…”

Those ridiculous green eyes widened dramatically. “The Talk? Isn’t he a little young for that?”

“Obviously not.”

“But… he’s not even _four_ yet! He doesn’t know that girls _exist!_ ”

Draco frowned. “What has that got to do with it?”

“Everything! Wait.” It was Harry’s turn to narrow his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?”

“Oh, no, you brought it up, so you go first.”

“I’m talking about his magic, of course! Sooner or later, every witch or wizard gets the Safe Magic Talk. Most don’t need it ’til they get their wands at eleven, but Bob is already using his magic deliberately, and now we have a baby in the house…”

“You think he’d hurt Tio with his magic?”

“Not intentionally, but look what he did to Skeeter when she made me angry. He has to understand that he can’t use magic on other people, and _especially_ not on his brother!”

“Oh.” Harry pondered that for a moment. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

“What did you think I was talking about?”

He flushed adorably and grinned over at Draco. “Sex.”

“Sex?” Draco blinked stupidly at him. “ _Sex?_ Merlin, Potter, he’s only three years old!”

“Well, that’s what I said, innit?”

Draco looked around for something to throw at him and could only find his scroll. “Git!”

Laughing, Harry batted away the missile and sent it unspooling across the bed. “You can have the Safe Magic Talk with him. I’ll sign up for the Safe Sex Talk, when he’s thirty or so.”

“You really are a git. At the rate he’s going, he’ll need the sex one well before he hits puberty. Maybe we should ask Fleur how families with Veela blood traditionally handle that…”

“Don’t even use the word ‘traditionally’ around me! As far as I’m concerned, it’s a dirty word!”

This time, he had nothing to throw at the other man, so he shoved him with his foot and spilled him, still laughing, onto his back. Wart stirred, turning his head and nuzzling at Draco’s shirt, warning his watchful father that he was working his way up to wakefulness. And a deal of noise, most likely.

“Now see what you’ve done, Potter? Couldn’t leave well enough—or _quiet_ enough—alone, could you? Two minutes, and he’ll be screaming the house down.”

“He isn’t that loud,” Harry retorted. “He hasn’t got nearly the lungs that Bob did at his age. And what’s this obsession with your sons wrecking our house, anyway? Does mindless, destructive violence run in your family along with the insanity?”

Draco cocked an eyebrow at him. “You even need to ask?”

Harry chuckled and pushed himself into a sitting position. “Molly left at least a dozen bottles warming in the kitchen. I’ll just…”

“ _Daddy! Daddy!_ ” came from the other room, cutting him off, “ _help meeee!_ ”

Harry was up off the bed and out the door in a flash. “Felix?!”

“Help! They’re getting away!”

_They?_

Draco swore under his breath and threw back the eiderdown to free his legs.

What the fuck were _they?_ And what mayhem had his son caused this time?

Little Wart snuffled and whimpered in discontent at the sudden disturbance. Draco cradled him with one arm, while using the other to propel his sore, weakened, entirely useless body toward the edge of the mattress. He got his bare feet to the floor and paused to listen.

The first thing he heard was, inexplicably, a faint peeping. Then…

“Merlin’s balls! Felix, what did you do?!”

“Made more ducklings for Tio. For his new room.”

“ _Live_ ducklings?!”

“Dad- _dyyy!_ You’re _stepping_ on it!”

“I’m not. I’m… _Fuck!_ ” There was a thunk, as a heavy weight (Harry, no doubt) hit the floor.

Draco started moving again, pushing himself stiffly to his feet, his abused body protesting all the way and Wart echoing its distress with his plaintive noises. And still the racket from the other room continued.

“They won’t stay in the crib.”

“Of course they won’t. The sides are open. Honestly, young man, what possessed you to… Quick, grab that one before it… _bloody hell!_ ”

“Oobleck, _nooooo!_ ”

Draco came to a halt in the open doorway of the nursery and stared, awestruck, at a scene of utter chaos. Harry was on his knees, one arm thrust under a small bureau, the other clutched to his chest to trap a squirming mass of yellow down. Bob was hopping about, tears in his eyes, batting uselessly at Oobleck, while the kitten struggled to pin down a wriggling body nearly as big as her own. And all around them, a dozen or more fluffy yellow ducklings scurried and hopped and fluttered their wings and _peeped_ in alarm.

“No, Oobleck, put it down!” Bob cried. “Daddy, she’s _hurting_ it!”

Giving up on whatever he’d lost under the bureau (presumably another duckling), Harry whirled on Oobleck and snatched her up—duckling and all—in his free hand. “Drop it, you wretched animal!”

A sharp shake, and Oobleck released her prey. The duckling dropped to the floor, where Bob grabbed it and held it to his chest, petting it as if it were a plush toy instead of a living creature.

“Bad cat!” he said sternly to Oobleck, while the kitten gazed hungrily at the duckling in his hands.

“You can’t blame her for trying to catch them,” Harry pointed out. “She’s a hunter, and live ducklings _do not_ belong in the house!”

At that point, Draco gave up and retreated, nearly choking on the laughter he was struggling so manfully to swallow. He absolutely should not laugh. He had just lectured Harry on the need to teach their son proper magical control and etiquette. But the flock of ducklings—conjured to keep little Arthur warm—was too much for him.

Safe in his own room, collapsed on his own bed, he surrendered himself to hilarity and laughed ’til his sides ached, his stomach burned, and his cheeks were slick with tears.

*** *** ***

“Are you sorry?”

“Mmm?” Harry bent to nuzzle at the hair by Draco’s ear. “’Bout what?”

“That you’re here with me, instead of up to your eyeballs in Weasleys at the Burrow.” Draco lifted and turned his head, finding Harry’s lips with his own but not quite letting them meet. “Regretting Celestina Warbeck, perhaps?”

“Git,” Harry breathed on a low laugh. Then he closed the distance between them, bringing their mouths together, slipping his tongue between Draco’s lips to claim him with a long, alcohol-flavored kiss.

The two men sprawled together on the drawing room sofa, Harry propped against one rolled arm, while Draco leaned into his chest, bracketed by his bent knees. Little Wart lay in a bassinet on the coffee table, his wide eyes fixed on the Christmas tree that glittered and shone above him, occasionally waving a curled fist in a fruitless attempt to grab one of the flickering fairy lights but otherwise perfectly content in his warm nest of blankets. As Draco was content to rest in the haven of Harry’s arms.

Well… maybe _content_ wasn’t quite the right word. In fact, he could think of several that were more accurate. Aroused, for instance (the polite version). Hard and wet (crude, but accurate). Horny as hell. Fucking _desperate_.

He shifted uncomfortably, not sure whether he was trying to ease the tightness of his pants or get his cock round where he could rub it against some part ( _any_ part would do) of his husband. Harry responded by deepening the kiss and sliding a hand down Draco’s body to cup the straining lump at his crotch. Draco whimpered softly. Bit at Harry’s lip. Sucked his tongue harder into his own mouth.

Merlins aching, blue balls! It had been too long! He hadn’t felt Harry’s cock inside him since before Wart’s birth—more than a month!—and how was he supposed to survive that? Seriously? He hadn’t gone a _day_ without getting fucked up against a wall in longer than he could remember, and suddenly, he was expected to go a _month?_ It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right. Wasn’t _possible._

This was why he’d begged off Christmas Eve at the Burrow. Not because he was still weak and in pain from his ordeal (he was, but that was neither here nor there). Not because he didn’t want to subject his premature, fragile-seeming baby to the noise and chaos of a Weasley Family celebration (Wart was used to noise and chaos, thanks to his incorrigible brother). Not because he was too good for the Weasleys’ brand of low-bred fun, as George half-seriously claimed, now that he was a Magical Mum. But simply because he wanted Harry to himself. And because, if he didn’t get buggered tonight, he would lose his sodding mind.

He pulled back from the kiss just enough to free his mouth and murmured, “Harry.”

“My beauty.”

“When is Granger bringing Bob home?”

“Some time after Midnight.”

“Send a Patronus. Tell her to keep him overnight.”

Harry’s brows scaled up. “Tomorrow’s Christmas. Don’t you want him here with us?”

“He’ll enjoy Christmas breakfast with his cousins.” He nipped suggestively at Harry’s lip and added, in a burred whisper, “And we’ll enjoy our own kind of feast.”

The black brows snapped together in a frown of concern. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I don’t want to push you.”

“You damned well better push me, Potter.” Lust and laughter gleamed in his eyes. “Up against a wall… over the back of a chair… onto a table…”

Sliding one hand down to press Harry’s palm hard against his rigid cock, Draco buried the other in his hair and pulled their mouths together. His kiss was hot and sloppy and demanding. Full of hunger. More than a little desperate. And Harry only hesitated for an instant before plunging into it.

By the time they broke apart again, Draco’s shirt was up around his ribs, his joggers down off his hips, and his thighs spread wide to welcome the hand buried in his pants. Strong fingers stroked his leaking cock, caressed his balls, and pushed under him to tease his opening. He gasped at their touch, then whined a protest when they pulled back to close round his cock again.

“Fuck… Harry…” Draco panted. Letting his head fall back into Harry’s shoulder and his lashes drop to veil his eyes, he clasped the hand working his cock to still it. “Send the Patronus. I don’t want Granger or Weasel walking in on us.”

“Right.”

Without bothering to find his wand, Harry conjured the Patronus and sent it on its way. A few moments later, a silver otter came swimming through the wall and announced, in Granger’s driest tone, “I assumed as much. See you tomorrow.” Then it was gone, and Draco was free to seduce his husband at his leisure.

Or jump him right here.

Either would work.

After a moment’s thought, while Harry resumed his lazy fondling of his cock, Draco twisted round to kneel on the sofa between the other man’s thighs. He was more than pleased to see Harry’s cock pushing arrogantly against the flies of his jeans. His own gave an answering twitch, stiffening still more, and he smiled in triumph as he snaked his arms round Harry’s neck.

“Let’s put Wart to bed, then you can unwrap your Christmas present.”

Harry caught him round the waist, pulled him close, nipped lightly at his jaw. “I thought we were saving the presents ’til tomorrow.”

“Not this one.” Draco tossed his head back, baring the long line of his throat to Harry’s mouth. “Definitely not this one.”

“Tio’s fine where he is,” Harry muttered into his neck, “and where better to unwrap a present than under the tree?”

“Trust me, Harry.”

Then he gently disentangled himself from his husband’s arms and rose to his feet. Holding out a hand to Harry, he repeated, in his most sultry tone, “Trust me.”

Harry was up off the sofa, Wart in his arms and headed for the door in a flash. They bounded up two flights of stairs to the third floor and strode down the hallway together. When Harry made a move toward the master bedroom, Draco halted him with a hand on his arm.

“Not there. The nursery.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Up to now, Draco had steadfastly refused to let Wart sleep in the nursery, though Bob had vacated it in favor of his new room weeks ago, so Harry’s surprise was understandable. But Draco had no intention of letting his innocent son witness the things that Harry was going to do to him tonight. Or the torture Draco was going to inflict on his husband if he didn’t perform up to expectation (which, to be fair, had never happened).

With a smile that told Harry exactly what was going through his mind, Draco murmured, “You get him settled, then come find me.”

“It may be a while. He needs a bottle, and he’s still wide awake.”

“Take all the time you need. I’ll be waiting.” Then, letting his hand trail seductively down Harry’s chest as he went, he turned and slipped into the master bedroom.

With the door shut, he leaned back against it, breathing hard, taking a moment to collect himself. He had plenty of time before Harry came looking for him. The process of putting an infant to bed was a long one, no matter how calm and obliging the infant in question. Part of Draco (the hard, aching part that was dampening his pants so assiduously) wished that he’d just fallen back on the sofa and let Harry take him right there. But most of him was grateful for some breathing space. Frantic as he was to end this torturous bout of celibacy, he was still nervous.

His body was sore. Stiff. Depleted. Tender in places he hadn’t known existed ’til now. Draco had always enjoyed a bit of pain with his sex (more than a bit, really), but there was pain, and then there was pain. The burn in his arse when Harry plowed furiously into him was one thing—as much pleasure as pain. The tearing ache in his belly, where the healers had hacked him apart in their ham-handed efforts at Muggle surgery, was something else all together.

So he was understandably skittish. But even the most confirmed coward had his limits—the point beyond which he could not be pushed without finding some core of bravery hidden deep within him—and Draco had reached those limits. It was time for this confirmed coward to summon his inner Gryffindor and get fucking busy (or busy fucking).

With this thought firmly in mind, Draco pushed himself away from the door and set about wrapping Harry’s Christmas present. First, he stripped off and, ignoring his raging erection, jumped in the shower for a quick scrub with his favorite scented soap. Then—clean and dry and still half-hard—he brushed out his hair, adding a few streaks of deep green to the shining platinum strands that hung nearly to his waist (oh, what joy to have a working wand in his hand again!). Finally, he produced a treasured pair of leather trousers from the back of the wardrobe and stepped into them, disdaining pants because (as any cretin knows) pants ruin the line of the leather.

They slid easily up his thighs and over his bum, settling perfectly round his hips. Fastening the flies was a bit of a challenge, with his cock swelling impudently behind them, but he managed to do it without catching anything delicate in the zip. Then he paused to examine himself in the full-length mirror.

Not too fucking shabby, for a man who’d been hugely pregnant, then gutted like a mackerel a bare month ago. He was still a bit too skinny (and wasn’t that ironic, considering how much time Ginny and Angelina had spent bemoaning the extra weight that had kept them off their broomsticks for months after giving birth?), his hipbones sharper than ever and his stomach a concave valley between them. But the trousers still fit him like a fine pair of gloves, still clung to the taut curves of his arse, still stretched tight over his cock and pressed his bollocks up until they showed as a soft bulge in the V of his crotch. They were still the single sexiest thing Draco had ever put on his body, and they would still drive Harry mad with lust.

Then his eyes fell on the pinkish-white scar curving across his abdomen, and his satisfaction soured. _That_ , unfortunately, would _not_ drive his husband mad with lust. In fact, it would drive him a whole different kind of mental.

It wasn’t that Harry found his surgery scar ugly or off-putting. It was that it reminded him of how much Draco had suffered and how far he still had to go to fully recover. And that was the very last thing Draco wanted his husband thinking about tonight.

Snatching his wand, Draco pointed it at his stomach and muttered a spell. Magic washed over him. The scar vanished.

“Please don’t do that.”

At the sound of that quiet voice, Draco whirled around to see Harry standing in the open doorway. He met his husband’s wistful, understanding eyes, and swallowed audibly. Then he turned back to face his reflection in the mirror.

“It upsets you.”

“It doesn’t.”

Harry shut the door and padded across the room to halt just behind Draco. His arms snaked around his husband’s waist and pulled him back, into his taller body. Then he propped his chin on Draco’s shoulder and met his gaze in the mirror.

“Don’t hide it from me.” He pressed a kiss to the tender spot just below Draco’s ear. “Please, Draco.”

His hands slid down Draco’s torso and came to rest with his palms flat on his belly, fingers splayed, their tips just pushing into the waistband of his trousers. Magic touched him (not his own this time). And the scar showed stark and painful against his white skin once more.

Before Draco could protest, Harry turned him forcibly around and backed him into the wall. Then he dropped to his knees in front of him and leaned in to feather a kiss to the scar, right where it met the waistband of his trousers. Draco shivered at the sensation. Harry’s tongue flicked out, licking the same sensitive spot, and Draco’s shiver turned to a moan.

“You want something from me,” Harry whispered against his skin. “Tell me what it is.”

“I want you to open your present…”

“This is my Christmas present?” His hands dragged up Draco’s trembling thighs, pulling against the soft leather, then slipped around to clasp his bum. “This gorgeous, fucking man wrapped up in gorgeous, fucking leather?”

“Nngh…” Draco grunted, momentarily robbed of words when Harry pressed his face to the tight leather at his crotch. “Yes…”

“You always did have a knack for choosing gifts.”

“Unwrap me, Harry. Strip me. Use me. _Enjoy_ me. Fuck me up against the wall again and again and again… Oh, Merlin _fuck!_ ”

Harry had his flies open and his nose buried in the damp flesh he’d bared. His lips and tongue moved over Draco’s loins, his cheek brushed his straining cock, his hands gripped his arse hard enough to bruise and pulled him forward until only his shoulders and head remained propped against the wall. Draco cried out again and slung one leg over Harry’s shoulder, opening himself, trusting in the support of his hands. Harry rewarded him by sucking the head of his cock into his mouth for a moment, but before Draco could thrust deeper into that caressing warmth, he pulled off.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Nnngh!” Draco groaned in protest.

“Promise you’ll stop me if it’s too much. Don’t let me hurt you.”

“I want you to hurt me.”

“Promise me, Draco.”

“I promise!”

Harry immediately swallowed him down, and this time, he did not stop. In minutes, he had Draco sobbing and begging, both legs hooked over Harry’s shoulders, both hands scrabbling at the blank wall for a purchase he could not find, hips thrusting wildly, head rolling and hair tangling against the wallpaper, as he pleaded for Harry to finish him. Harry—ever happy to comply with his lover’s demands—obliged.

A powerful swallow. An expert roll of his tongue. A finger pressing against his throbbing hole through the leather, and Draco came with a breathless cry, emptying himself down Harry’s throat.

He was still shuddering in the grip of his climax when Harry dropped his feet to the floor, rose, and tugged the leather trousers down off his hips. Even in his addled state, Draco knew what was coming. He gave a whimper of anticipation and braced himself more firmly against the wall. Then, with glorious, painful, ecstatic swiftness, Harry had his knees up to his shoulders and his arse full of cock.

He cried out in pain. Then in welcome. Then he was gasping, “fuck… oh fuck… harder… _please_ …” as Harry plowed him into the wall. He was hard again and leaking hungry fluids onto his own heaving belly when Harry stiffened, drove deep into him, and came with a muttered curse.

Heat and wetness flooded him, fused their bodies deliciously together, ran over his skin and smeared when Harry leaned in to capture his lips in a filthy kiss. He whined into his lover’s mouth, already aching for more. Harry grabbed a fistful of his hair, twisted his head to one side, and plunged still more deeply into the kiss, while Draco rutted helplessly against him. Pinned between the wall and Harry’s body, impaled by his cock and his tongue, legs tangled in leather trousers and caught up tight against his own chest, Draco could barely move, much less find the friction he needed for relief. It was torment, but it was sweet. So sweet. And he had tears running down his cheeks by the time Harry broke the long kiss.

With a whispered endearment and the brush of lips against his wet lashes, Harry lifted him away from the wall. A few staggering steps, and he found himself sprawled on his back across the bed. Harry quickly peeled off his trousers, tossed them away, and Vanished his own clothing. Then he crawled onto the mattress between Draco’s spread legs and stooped over him.

Draco looped his arms around Harry’s neck. Drew him down into a hungry kiss. Murmured against his swollen lips, “Fuck me, Harry. Plant another baby in me.”

Harry’s head jerked back and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t even joke about that,” he growled. Then he sank down on top of Draco, buried himself to the root in his body, and fucked him to screaming tears.

Later—much later, to judge by the number of times Draco had come, sobbing Harry’s name—they lay together beneath the eiderdown. Harry had thoughtfully scoured away their copious spendings, leaving the bed and their bodies pleasantly clean (if a bit tingly from all those _Scourgifies_ ). Now he was stroking Draco’s hair in a languorous way, while cradling his arse with the other hand to keep him close.

As if Draco had any intention of pulling away. He was much too comfortable, lying with his head on Harry’s shoulder and his leg tossed across Harry’s thighs and his cock (still half-hard and inclined to twitch when he played back their recent activities in his mind) pressed into Harry’s hip. No, this was exactly where he wanted to be, and he’d be buggered if he moved so much as a fingertip… except maybe to slip said fingertip into the soft crease at the top of Harry’s thigh and push it down to where…

“Mmm, careful, my beauty.”

“Careful of what?” Draco purred, his fingers finding something particularly soft and sensitive to tease.

“You keep messing about like that, and you’re going to find yourself bent over a chair and buggered.”

He lifted his head to gift Harry with a provocative grin. “You’ll get no complaints from me.”

“I’m serious.” Harry’s cock was stirring in a lazy sort of way. Not yet fully alert, but beginning to take notice.

“So am I.” Draco curled his hand around the lovely, massive, masterful thing that had plundered him with such energy and skill tonight, and coaxed it into raising its head. “I haven’t been bent over a chair yet. Sounds like fun.”

Harry’s hand closed round his, stilling it, and his voice went from teasing to serious. “You were crying that last time.”

“I was crying most of the time.”

“You know what I mean, Draco. I hurt you. It was too much.”

“You’re always too much for me, Harry, and I love it.”

“Let’s just rest for a bit. Please. For me, if not for you.”

“Hmmph.” He settled his head back into its accustomed place and rested his hand flat on Harry’s stomach, resisting the urge to stroke him. After a quiet minute or two, he murmured, “So, the present was a success, then?”

A soft chuckle shook the chest beneath his cheek. “It was brilliant.”

“It’s all about the wrapping.”

“No.” Harry lifted Draco’s head with a hand in his hair and stroked his cheek with a gentle finger. “It’s all about what’s inside.”

“So, get inside me, you prat.” That earned him a groan and an eye-roll. “You walked right into that one,” Draco informed him smugly.

“Yeah, I did. And you couldn’t pass up the chance to be crude.”

“I have my reputation to think of.”

Harry laughed softly, pulled him up into a kiss, then murmured against his mouth, “I have a present for you, too.”

“Does it involve leather and sex?”

“Not directly, no. But I suppose it could lead to leather and sex… eventually…”

Draco promptly sat up, spilling the blankets down around his hips. He held out an imperious hand. “Let’s have it.”

“It’s not something I can just hand over. It’s more…”

When he broke off to shove a hand through his hair—always a sign that he was working up to something unpleasant—Draco narrowed his eyes at him.

“Presents are supposed to be _nice,_ Harry. Nothing that makes you pull your hair about that way is ever _nice_.”

“It is! Or… I hope it is. _I_ think it’s nice—brilliant, actually!—but I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it.”

“Oh, just spill it already!”

“Okay! Okay.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair once more, grimaced, and said, all in a rush, “I’ve decided to quit my job!”

That was absolutely, positively the _last_ thing Draco had expected to hear. He sat, dumbfounded, staring into Harry’s flushed, hopeful face, with a look of gobsmacked idiocy on his own that would, under normal circumstances, have reduced his husband to howling laughter. Now, it just made him squirm.

Finally, Draco collected his scattered wits enough to speak. “You can’t be serious.”

Harry’s cheeks darkened still more. “I’m completely serious. I haven’t told Robards yet because I wanted to tell you first, but that’s why I’ve been avoiding him.”

“And going funny whenever I mention it!” Draco added, with dawning understanding. “But, Harry, you _love_ your job!”

“Yeah, I do, but I love my family more.”

“Your family isn’t going anywhere. You don’t have to give up being an Auror for us.”

Harry sat up and reached out to cup Draco’s cheek in his palm. His eyes were soft and pleading in the firelight when he asked, “Does it really matter that much to you that I’m an Auror?”

“It matters to me that you’re happy, doing what you love, whatever that is. Do I like that you’re an Auror? Of course. All that power and authority are a serious turn-on, and I fucking _adore_ you in those red robes! But you don’t need a job title to be powerful and authoritative and sexy as fuck. You’re all those things when you’re changing dirty nappies.”

Harry’s thumb stroked his cheek and traced his lips. “See, that’s what I love about you. You want me, even when I’m changing dirty nappies.”

“I want you every second I’m breathing, but Harry,” he paused to nip at the caressing thumb, “that’s not the point.”

A fond smile tilted Harry’s lips. “If I don’t miss the point now and then, how will you know it’s really me?”

“Git.” He leaned in to press a lingering kiss to Harry’s mouth. Then he murmured, “The point is that you don’t have to do any particular job to please me. But you don’t have to give one up to please me, either.”

“It’s not just to please you. It’s what I want.”

“What’ll you do?”

“Stay here. Raise my children. Pamper my husband. Dress him up in leather and peel it off his body, while he squirms and begs and wets himself with need of me.”

Draco grinned at that, but it twisted quickly into a grimace. “You’ll get sick of being a stay-at-home dad and sex god, soon enough.”

“Will I, though?” Harry quirked another of those beautiful, winsome smiles at him and mused, “I admit, when I first brought you and Tio home from hospital, I thought I’d get fed up with being a nursemaid, but I didn’t. Just like I didn’t get fed up with bottles and nappies and midnight feedings and watching Felix paint the cat with marmalade. I love every minute of it. And the longer I do it, the more I hate the idea of doing anything else.”

Draco stared deep into his eyes, reading the utter sincerity in their glowing, green depths, and realized that he meant it. Harry Sodding Potter, Auror Extraordinaire, compulsive hero, savior of the known universe, Chosen Fucking One, wanted to spend his days warming bottles and wiping smelly bums. It beggared belief.

“This is really what you want.”

It wasn’t a question, but Harry answered it anyway. “More than anything. And just think what it’ll mean for your career! You won’t be responsible for the boys’ care, so you can just get out there and… take over the world!”

“I don’t want to take over the world,” Draco protested gently, “just help a few people who’ve got no one else to defend them.”

“And you will. My warrior in makeup and Mod boots.” Harry leaned in to steal a kiss, then breathed, “My Lochinvar.”

Draco laughed softly and caught his lower lip between his teeth for a tantalizing moment. Then he backed off slightly to whisper, “I suppose it could work. It means I could focus on my law practice… in between babies.”

Harry stiffened. “I told you not to joke about that.”

“I’m not joking.”

Strong hands caught his shoulders and pushed him away. Green eyes blazed angrily at him. The lips that had, just moments before, reduced him to jelly with their kisses now hardened in an uncompromising frown.

Draco reached up to caress his face in a bid to soften his mood. “Stop glaring at me like that.”

“Stop talking about _babies,_ ” he countered fiercely.

“I’m not seriously suggesting we make one tonight—we couldn’t, even if we wanted to—but when Wart’s a little older…”

“No. Not a chance. You almost _died_ , Draco! There’s no way in _bleeding hell_ I’m doing that to you again!”

“I almost died because Forbush interfered with the ritual. And because we didn’t know what the labor pains meant. But we know what to expect now.”

“ _No!_ This is _completely mental!_ ”

“I thought you wanted children.”

“I did! I _do!_ But we have children, Draco! Wonderful, beautiful, _magical_ children! Why on _earth_ would I risk your life to have more?!”

Draco shrugged, untroubled by Harry’s outburst, knowing that it was just his way of handling his fear (and secretly touched by the absolute devotion behind that fear). “I’d still like to have a girl.”

“That isn’t possible. Hermione told us.”

“Granger doesn’t know everything—as evidenced by the disaster that was Wart’s birth—but if she’s such a brilliant researcher, then she can turn her skills to finding a way for us to do it.”

“Even the most brilliant researcher can’t find what isn’t there.”

“Still.” Draco cocked his head and mused, “I’ll think I’ll ask her to look into it.”

“You’re just being a stubborn twat. You know perfectly well— wait, _why_ are we even arguing about this?! You’re not having anymore children, and that’s final! Besides, I thought you hated being pregnant.”

Draco opened his eyes very wide (channeling Bob) and asked, all innocence, “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“ _You_ did! You said it at least a dozen times a day for _seven bleeding months!_ ”

Draco’s lips twisted into his patented smirk. “When are you going to learn not to listen to me, Potter?”

Harry set his jaw mulishly and ground out, “It doesn’t matter. I’m not getting you up the duff again.”

“Git,” Draco purred, as he leaned into Harry’s chest and twined his arms around his neck. “Ridiculous, over-protective, hopelessly noble, Gryffindor git.”

Under Draco’s weight, Harry fell back onto the bed, carrying his husband with him. Draco captured his lips in a long, heated kiss, simultaneously rubbing his stiffened prick against his belly. Harry returned his embrace enthusiastically, but when they came up for air a few minutes later, he still had some fight left in him.

“No more babies, Draco.”

His husband just smiled and said, “We’ll see,” before claiming his mouth again.

**_To be continued…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done. One more chapter to go. Thank you so much for sticking with me for so long, and thank you for being such wonderful, appreciative readers!


	10. Epilogue: Another Potter Family Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short epilogue for you - a bit of domestic fluff (and a tiny bit of smut) with the Potter family.
> 
> Thanks to hebemyqueen for the suggestion of spell names (I won't give away, at this point, whose they are). You made Harry and Draco's brood more magical than ever and solved a problem for me!
> 
> Enjoy!

"Daddy! Tio's hogging all the jam!"

"Am not. There's still some for you."

"Honestly," Harry said with a sigh, turning from the stove to face his squabbling children. "There's quite enough jam for both of you."

Two identical pairs of grey eyes—one shining from beneath a mop of inky-black hair, the other framed by silver-blond—gazed expectantly up at him. Felix’s cheeks were slightly flushed with indignation, while Tio’s pale, aristocratic face showed only mild surprise at his brother’s outburst. Harry was a bit surprised himself, still not used to this new dynamic between his sons.

Felix adored Tio, and Tio hero-worshipped Felix. They rarely fought because Tio rarely pushed back against his brother’s stronger will, and when they did, it was always Tio who gave in. But at five years old, Tio was beginning to assert himself just a little, to (very carefully) probe the limits of Felix’s authority, and even occasionally to take what he wanted against his brother’s protests.

Today it was strawberry jam.

Harry watched him scoop a sloppy spoonful out of the pot and slather it over his triangle of toast. The poor bread was already groaning under a layer three-quarters of an inch thick. Felix turned an accusing look on Harry and flung out a hand toward his brother.

The gesture was worthy of Draco at his most dramatic.

“Tio, put some of that jam back in the pot.” Turning back to the stove, a spatula in one hand and a baby balanced on the opposite hip, Harry began to flip pancakes with practiced ease. “And Felix, get your brother up off the floor before someone trips over him.”

“ _Someone_ means Papa ’cause he can’t see his feet,” Felix confided to Tio in an over-loud whisper, their disagreement over jam forgotten as quickly as it had arisen.

“Why can’t Papa see his feet?” Tio asked, mimicking Felix’s mock-hushed tone.

“He _can_ see his feet,” Harry objected, “when he puts them up on a stool. What did I ask you to do, Felix?”

He heard the scrape of a chair against the stone floor behind him, then, “Fiddy, _stop!_ Daddy, Fiddy’s poking the salamander!”

Harry whirled around, spatula raised like a weapon, to find his three-year-old crouched on the hearth, jabbing what looked like a wand into the flames.

“ _Fidelius Potter!_ ”

The boy twisted in his direction and gazed up at his father, untroubled by his wrath as usual. He held a familiar length of polished Hawthorn in one chubby fist.

“Leave that salamander alone!” Harry stormed over, still cradling eighteen-month-old Will on his hip, and plucked the offending stick from Fidelius’ hand. “ _Where_ did you get your father’s wand?”

Fidelius just gave him an owl-eyed look.

"The table. Now.”

The boy bounced to his feet and trotted over to the table, where a plate of (rapidly cooling) food waited for him. He clambered onto the bench, snatched up a fork, and began jamming scrambled eggs into his face. Harry watched to make sure he wasn’t about to make a break for it, then settled little Will in his highchair at the end of the long table and put a binding spell on him to keep him there. Then he took a moment to gaze at the gallery of little faces turned on him. His entirely marvelous sons.

Harry’s penchant for ridiculous magical names had (so far) proven far more apt than anyone might have guessed, back when he’d recklessly named Draco’s son after a potion. Felix Felicis. Arthur Amortentius. Fidelius James. Only William Severus—named by Draco in a fit of obstinacy that even Harry could not resist—had no magical legacy to live up to, though Draco swore that he could well turn out to be a writer of unmatched brilliance (or a greasy-haired git with a talent for potions, who loathed children and enjoyed making their lives a torment, but that seemed a stretch).

Eight-year-old Felix, Harry’s Draco in miniature, was everything his early years had promised—magically powerful, bright and beautiful, open and giving, sweetly determined to have his way in all things. With the not-so-subtle patina of Veela magic gilding everything about him and making resistance to his devastating charm futile. But above all else, he was happy, and this was Harry’s greatest pride. Looking at Felix, he imagined that this is what Draco might have been, had he grown up in a family that valued him for who he was and not what they expected him to be.

In contrast, Amortentius was gentle and quiet and utterly lovable. The very embodiment of love and magic. He still bore the signs of his traumatic birth in his translucent skin, delicate bones, and the perpetually watchful expression in his too-big eyes (as if expecting cruel Fate to deal him another devastating blow at any moment). But under that fragile exterior was a spirit as strong and sure and deeply loving as the magic that had made him. Everyone adored Tio, even more effortlessly than they did Felix, and he didn’t need Veela magic to keep the wizarding world wrapped round his little, white finger. He simply had to be.

And then came Fidelius, whose name meant Faithful. There were those (like Harry) who claimed that his third son had taken faithfulness to new heights. Others (like Draco) said he was stubborn as a bag of rocks. Call it what you like, when Fidelius Potter got an idea into his head, he followed it to its logical conclusion, and no threats, bribery, cajolery or distraction could turn him aside.

Fidelius, more than any of his brothers, resembled Harry. He had an unruly mop of black hair—much thicker, coarser and wilder than Tio’s—a square chin, a firm mouth, and green eyes (bluer than Harry’s, but still green enough to deserve the name) under black brows that were much given to frowning in concentration. He would grow up to be devastatingly handsome (or so Draco claimed) and cut a swathe of broken hearts through the Magical population of Britain, but like his father before him, would neither notice nor care because he would be doggedly pursuing some mysterious end of his own.

Will, their fourth and (for the moment) youngest, was Harry and Draco’s foundling child in more ways than one. Not only did he have a glorious head of auburn curls and celestial blue eyes (Harry’s magical tribute to his mother’s Celtic heritage, Draco assured the curious or sceptical; the result of Ferret messing about with the Muggle milkman, Ron crudely asserted), but he was also the only one of their brood to be called exclusively by his given name.

Felix, Tio and Fidelius each had more names than any child could reasonably want. Family tradition held that Harry and Draco never use the same name for any one of their children, while their siblings delighted in finding names that drove both parents round the twist, and people outside the family circle simply wanted something that made sense. It got worse with each child, until the third was (for reasons inscrutable to all but Harry and Felix) Sid to Draco, Fidelius to Harry, Fiddy to his brothers (which gave Draco the shudders), and Jamie to everyone else.

But William Severus was just Will. Who, after all, was going to call such an adorable infant Severus? No one was that cruel, Harry asserted, even Draco.

That adorable infant was currently staring up at Harry with his brilliant blue eyes, one hand stuffed in his mouth, and a smile dimpling his drool-slicked cheeks. When Harry shook his head and groaned, Will laughed in delight.

“Da da!” he proclaimed triumphantly, around his fingers.

“All of you, just sit there and _eat,_ ” Harry ordered, snagging a bowl of porridge from the counter and plopping it down in front of Will. “Your father has Court this morning, and I have to get his breakfast on the table. I don’t have time for your games.”

With that, he stomped back to the stove and began scraping the pancakes (now burnt, thanks to all the distractions) off the griddle.

“Will is drawing pictures with his porridge,” Felix informed him cheerfully.

“That’s fine,” Harry replied.

“He’s dribbling it all over the floor.”

“That’s _fine._ Worry about your own food.”

“He’s throwing it at Tio.”

“ _Felix_ …”

“ _Eurgh!_ He got some in the jam!”

That sparked a chorus of protests from all three boys that dragged Harry, once again, over to the table. He had Draco’s wand sticking out of his pocket, but it was the spatula that he brandished as he descended on his shrieking brood.

“All of you, _quiet!_ You _know_ what will happen, if Papa comes in here and finds you all covered in porridge and strawberry jam!”

Of course, Draco chose that moment to come sailing into the room, resplendent in drainpipe trousers, Mod boots, and tailored midnight blue robes that were perfectly pleated to hang over his enormous tummy. He looked simultaneously slender and huge (his back, shoulders and hips were still elegantly trim, while his stomach was roughly the size of a haystack), gorgeous and grumpy. His glossy purple lips were pulled down in a scowl. His eyes flashed from beneath blackened lashes and kohl-lined lids.

Harry took a moment to admire the vision he presented and felt his cock raise its impudent head.

“ _Why_ are my children covered in porridge and strawberry jam?” Draco demanded sourly. “And _why_ is my breakfast not on the table?”

“I’m a little busy, here,” Harry said amiably, his ill humor vanishing with his husband’s arrival. He didn’t honestly care what Draco said, so long as he got to look at him while he said it.

“I can’t be late, Harry. You know I’ve got the Parkinson’s hearing today. This is _important._ It could make or break my career.”

“You say that about every hearing.”

“Yes, but it’s true this time. I have to be in top form, not rushed and sweaty and famished because my husband didn’t feed me!”

“Well, if you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you help me out? You can start by cleaning up Will’s mess…”

“You just stepped in porridge, Papa,” Felix said.

Draco took a hasty step back. “Eurgh. It’s all over the floor.”

“Watch where you’re going,” Harry advised.

“He can’t!” Tio chimed in. “He can’t see his feet!”

“That’s quite enough out of you, Arthur,” Draco snapped (always a danger signal when Draco used his actual name). “Why are you covered in porridge?”

“It’s Will’s.”

To make his point, Will chose that moment to fling another spoonful of porridge down the table, splattering all three of his brothers and landing a few dollops in the jam. One blob even reached the far end of the table, where Oobleck perched, serenely ignoring the chaos, nibbling delicately at a saucer of scrambled eggs (she had never learned to eat on the floor, like a proper cat—or to eat proper cat food, for that matter).

“ _Wi-ill!_ ” the boys all cried in unison.

“Take the spoon away from him, at least,” Harry called, as he beat a strategic retreat to the stove.

“I will not,” Draco said. “This is my last clean set of robes that still fits, and I won’t have it crusted with porridge!”

Harry cast a measuring eye over him. “I’m surprised you could find any robes that fit. I swear you’ve gotten bigger just since last night.”

“Rubbish.”

“You have. And that baby is going to weigh at least fifteen pounds. You’ve still got a month to go, and he’s already the size of Madam Maxime’s carriage.”

“It’s not _he_ , it’s _they._ Two of them, at least.”

Harry turned abruptly at that, breakfast forgotten in hope and curiosity. “Really? How do you know?”

“Because they sleep in shifts, so one is always awake and moving.” He put a white hand against his deep blue belly and grimaced. “I haven’t slept properly myself in days, thanks to this precious pair.”

“Hm.” Harry took a step closer, studying the hollowness of his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. “You do look a bit peaky.”

Draco’s scowl deepened. “Brilliant. I’d better go fix my makeup.”

“Don’t be daft. Just sit down and have some tea.”

“I can’t go to Court looking _peaky_ , Potter! I have to look elegant and alert and thoroughly in control.”

“You always do. Come on, love. You need to feed those babies.”

“I _need_ to get ready for Court and away from flying porridge.”

He turned for the door, giving Harry an unimpeded view of his immaculately-tailored back that went straight to his cock. Another idea that had absolutely nothing to do with breakfast entered Harry’s brain and made him grab the wand from his pocket. One sweep of it shut off the stove and lifted all the remaining cookware into the sink. Another sweep cleaned up the spilled porridge. A third set up protection spells to keep the boys away from the hearth and anything sharp. Then, finally, as he started out of the room in Draco’s wake, he cast a fourth spell to alert him if anything untoward occurred in the kitchen during his absence.

“You boys stay here and finish your breakfast. I’ll be upstairs, er, helping Papa get ready.”

“That means, making another baby brother for us,” Felix informed Tio knowledgeably.

“It does _not!_ ” Harry protested.

“We can’t make another baby ’til we finish with this one,” Draco snapped, halfway down the hallway to the stairs but still perfectly capable of arguing with his children, “and you have all the brothers you’re going to get! I absolutely refuse to produce any more boys.”

“You always have boys!” Felix called after him.

“Not this time!”

With that, he stomped up the stairs, Harry laughing in his wake.

He was still laughing when they reached the master bedroom and he spelled the door shut behind them. Draco was still scowling, but he knew as well as Harry did why he’d followed him up there, and that certainty was already softening the annoyance in his face, filling him with warmth and hunger for something more than pancakes.

Harry crowded him up against the nearest wall and leaned over his enormous stomach to steal a kiss.

“You’re smearing my makeup,” Draco said, his voice low and teasing.

“I’m going to do a whole lot worse in a moment.”

“I really do have to be in Court.”

“I know, but we have time.”

“For what?”

“For me to fuck my gorgeous, pregnant husband up against the wall, just once for luck. Or maybe twice, since this hearing is so important.”

Draco gave him a crooked smile that looked utterly out of place and incredibly hot on his painted face. “I’m not opposed in principle, but I think we’ve reached the point where walls are impracticable.”

“Walls are never impracticable.”

“Harry, my dear imbecile, look at me. You’ll never get your cock in me around this monstrosity of a stomach.”

“Just watch me.”

With a wave of his hand, Harry banished Draco’s clothing, leaving him with nothing but his makeup, the jeweled pins that held his plait coiled on the crown of his head, and his wedding ring. His tremendous belly was even more shocking and impressive with no clothing to mask its contours, and Harry could see it heave as the baby inside rolled over. He rested a hand on the spot where a tiny foot pushed outward and cast a wondering look at Draco.

His husband gave him another of those enflaming, crooked smiles. “The Morning shift, hard at work.”

The baby moved again, twisting and heaving, lifting Harry’s hand.

“He’s fantastic.”

“She.”

“Hermione says she doesn’t think it’s possible for two wizards to produce a girl.”

“Granger doesn’t know everything, and I forbid it to be a boy.”

“What if it is?”

“I _forbid_ it.”

“But what if it is? Really?”

Draco scowled again. “We’ll sell him to the goblins.”

Harry chuckled softly and stepped around Draco’s belly, his hand still resting on the little body moving inside it, to kiss him. “We won’t, you know. We’ll adore him— _them_ , if you’re right—like we do all the others.”

“You adore them. I frequently consider selling them to the goblins. Especially Sid, who, I suspect, has a deal of goblin blood in him anyway.”

“You love our boys,” Harry nuzzled at his throat, then nipped at his lips, smearing the lipstick deliciously, “all of them. And you’ll love these, too.”

Draco gave a long-suffering sigh and grabbed fistfuls of Harry’s hair to pull him close. “Fine. I’ll love them.”

Then they were kissing. A lovely, messy, filthy, half-melted kiss that tasted of lipstick and lust. Harry, in the middle of this embrace, opened his trousers with a thought and dropped to his knees on the floor. Draco came with him, naturally landing astride his lap. Then Harry tilted Draco’s body back against the wall, slid his hips higher on his own thighs, and pushed his filling cock between his cheeks.

“What was that about walls being impracticable?” he murmured, provocatively.

“Shut it and fuck me, already,” was the curt reply.

Harry complied, angling Draco’s hips and easing into his tight opening.

“Oh, _fuck_ that hurts!” Draco grunted, pulling his knees up and spreading himself for Harry’s use.

“You love it,” Harry retorted, as he pushed deeper into the other man’s body. Draco could only groan in agreement.

Then Harry was buried to the hilt in Draco’s arse, rising up on his knees, shoving the other man up the wall, and pounding into him with increasing urgency. Draco grunted softly with every thrust. Then grunts turned to pants, to whimpers, to a long keening cry of hunger that clenched at Harry’s guts and pushed him ever closer to the edge.

“Fuck… _fuck… Harry!_ ” he sobbed, caught between Harry’s pistoning hips and the unforgiving wall, his swollen body desperate for more but unable to open any farther.

“Come on, you beauty,” Harry panted, thrusting still harder, “beg for it.”

Then before Draco could speak, Harry grabbed his head and pulled him into a fierce kiss. When he bit down on Draco’s lip, the other man instantly pitched into an orgasm that threatened to shake his body apart. Harry came in the next breath, following his lover over the edge, holding him in the kiss and supporting him on his lap as they both shuddered and spurted and moaned.

Not until Harry felt Draco go limp did he let him go. He gently hoisted the smaller man to his feet and straightened his own cramped knees to stand, pulling him into a supporting embrace. Draco was shivering, but Harry knew it was with pleasure, not distress. He loved being used this way. Loved being stripped and shoved up against a wall and fucked ’til his legs couldn’t bear his weight. And Harry loved giving him everything he wanted.

When Harry wrapped his arms around him, Draco lifted his chin, asking for a kiss that Harry happily gave him. They stayed that way for a long minute—standing as close together as Draco’s condition would allow, Draco’s naked body pressed to Harry’s clothed one and held tight in his protective arms, Harry stroking his swollen belly and the baby moving inside it—just kissing and breathing and being together. Then, finally, with a small noise of discontent, Draco pulled away.

“I really do have to get to Court.”

“I know. Let me help.”

Harry sent out a wash of magic that stripped Draco clean. Then he summoned the clothing he’d removed so precipitously. Luckily, over the years he had mastered the art of folding or hanging Draco’s clothes when he banished them, so the robes were still perfectly pressed. Draco smiled his thanks and bestowed another kiss on Harry’s lips before waltzing—still stark naked—into the bathroom to reapply his makeup.

Harry watched him go with an uncomfortable heat building in his loins. “How much time do you have?” he called after Draco’s retreating back.

“Not enough!” he called back.

“You sure? Just a quickie, on all fours on the bed? I can be in and out in five minutes!”

“Put it away, Potter! You can have a quickie when I come home tonight!”

“Hmph,” Harry grunted unhappily, but he obediently tucked his cock back into his pants and fastened his trousers.

Draco was right. They didn’t have time to do it properly. And he’d always be anxious for one more, no matter how many times he got his husband naked and on all fours. It was that pregnant belly that did him in. One look at it, and he was hard as a broomstick.

Draco returned a few minutes later, hair and makeup repaired, dressed neatly in trousers, shirt and boots. He accepted the robes that Harry handed him, let his husband slide them up his arms, then turned and smiled at Harry as he fastened them down the front. Harry made a point of fastening each of the tiny silver buttons down his forearms by hand, fitting the tight inner sleeves to his arms, then adjusting the fall of the loose outer sleeves. They were folded back to expose a lining of purple and blue paisley silk and pinned above his elbows with jewels that matched the ones in his hair.

When Harry began to fuss with the pleats over his belly, Draco gave him a sardonic smile and murmured, “Thanks, Mum. May I go?”

“Only if you promise to play nice with the other children and not to muss your robes.”

“I promise.”

Harry clasped his enormous belly in both hands and feathered a final kiss to his lips without smudging his lipstick. “Take good care of our boys.”

“Girls. They’re both girls.”

“If that’s what you want, love.”

“It is. And like my dear son, Bob, I always get what I want.”

*** *** ***

Draco was right that he was carrying twins. Felix was right that they were both boys—two perfectly-matched Draco clones, right down to the points of their chins and the silver-blond widow’s peaks in their foreheads. Harry was lost the instant he laid eyes on them. Draco scowled and muttered something about goblins that fooled no one.

True to form, the doting parents could not agree on names for their offspring. They rowed and negotiated and rowed some more. They lobbied their friends and extended family for support. And finally, after more than two weeks of calling the babies Thing 1 and Thing 2 (thanks to Fidelius, who had recently discovered Dr. Seuss), they caved and named them Harry and Draco (because Fred and George seemed to be asking for trouble).

Also true to form, the boys were virtually never called by their given names.

Harry Lumos and Draco Leviosus (by the time they got to middle names, Draco had frankly given up) were Hal and Dragon to most of the family, Lou and Lev to their incorrigible brothers, and the Moppet and the Menace to Draco. He refused to discuss what he’d call them when they finally went to Hogwarts and these non-names became untenable.

Outside the family, the boys were invariable seen as a unit, no one quite able to tell one from the other, neither boy ever found without his brother at his side. They were generally referred to as “Harryandraco” or, more ominously, “Those Potter Twins.”

*** *** ***

The twins are now four years old.

Harry absolutely adores his family and has never regretted quitting his job as an Auror to raise his children. He is a supremely happy stay-at-home dad, madly in love with his husband, and always in demand at children’s parties to organize the flying games.

Draco has never regretted choosing a career in Magical Law over a teaching position at Hogwarts, though he occasionally drops by the castle to help out the increasingly ancient and senile DADA professor. He has built a towering reputation with the Wizengamot. They often don't agree with him (not surprising, given his clientele) but they always listen to him, always respect him, and look forward to seeing him in court. He is a warrior in makeup and Mod boots. Undaunted, untiring, and unashamed of who he is, even when the Press goes after him for his lifestyle, his fashion sense or his decision to dabble in ancient Egyptian fertility magic.

Draco has not tried to get pregnant again. Harry says they have enough children. Draco says nothing, but his ever-watchful husband has caught the longing looks he throws at the empty nursery as he strides by on some vital errand.

George has a betting pool going on when the Ferret will announce that he's up the duff again.

Ron still insists that girls are easier.

Draco insists that there must be a way for two wizards to produce a girl.

Hermione is looking into it.

**_Finis_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at the end of the saga. I hope you enjoyed it. I certainly did!
> 
> I might possibly write more one-shots in this series, if I get inspired, but I believe that it is the hallmark of a good writer to know when to stop. And I believe that it is time for me to stop, before I bore you all to sobs and ruin (what is, I hope) a good thing. If you have a vignette or short story you'd like to see in this universe, let me know and I'll consider it. But for now, I'm afraid it's good bye!
> 
> Thank you all for being such wonderful, appreciative readers, for giving me so much love and encouragement, and for inspiring me to do my best for you and our boys! I can never express what it means to me!
> 
> All the best,  
> \-- CorvetteClaire


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